


Scar Tissue

by tonsil



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Happy Ending, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Jon Snow Knows Something and it's how to be a good big brother, Past Abuse, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:03:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21393382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonsil/pseuds/tonsil
Summary: Arya's being forced into a poofy white dress and trauma riddled Sansa and Sandor have to figure out this whole wedding thing without killing one another. It would be much easier if they became friends... Or something more.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 188
Kudos: 269





	1. Scar Tissue That I Wish You Saw

**Author's Note:**

> Weddings are never stressful, right? Right?

Sansa’s eye twitched despite taking her 38th calming breath that day. This entire affair had been one of the most taxing experiences she’d had in her life. Her mother’s absolute jubilation that one of her daughters was  _ finally  _ getting married had wounded her in places only Jon could comprehend. The sympathetic looks constantly thrown her way from those who assumed she must be devastated that her younger sister was getting married before her were cumbersome and unwelcome. Arya was only two years younger than her for Seven’s sake!

Their mother’s overbearing wedding planning and insistence that Sansa be Arya’s maid of honor had been rage inducing to both parties, who had only mildly veiled hatred for each other in the ways of sisterly bonds. The subsequent lashing out from Arya since this whole thing started had been equally angering to Sansa. But, she was as always, ladylike to a fault. And murdering your mother and younger sister was unquestionably unladylike. 

Which led Sansa to her current predicament. Her mother, being not-murdered, had no qualms about using Sansa as a wedding errand slave. Which is why Sansa was shivering in the snow waiting for Arya’s guests to arrive. 

Sansa had to admit that it was genius on Arya’s part to insist on a winter wedding. The cold would keep the guest count down and the ceremony in the Godswood short. If Sansa was being honest, she was surprised there was going to be a ceremony at all. She’d never pegged her younger sister as the marrying type and always assumed that if she did decide to marry she would elope. 

Unfortunately for Arya, she was marrying the ever considerate and ever stubborn Gendry. In Gendry’s mind, Arya was a proper lady that deserved to be married in her ancestral home surrounded by family. One calculated slip of the tongue to Catelyn and Eddard Stark about their engagement and here they all were, delivering a personal nightmare to Arya. 

She broke from her thoughts as a large black car crunched its way through the snow and up to the entrance to Winterfell. The ancient wooden doors to the estate were permanently ajar and the opening had long since been outfitted with an electric gate. Sansa pressed the button to open the gate and walked toward the car as it approached her. The vehicle came to a halt and the first face Sansa saw was a familiar one. 

Syrio Forel sprang from the front passenger seat and Sansa immediately recognized him as Arya’s fencing teacher from when she was in school. She’d been forced into attending too many fencing tournaments to ever forget him. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he walked up to her in that dancing type swagger he possessed. He planted a kiss on either cheek which Sansa returned, “Maestro Forel, it’s such a pleasure to see you again. I hope your journey from Braavos wasn’t too arduous.”

Syrio hopped from one foot to the next, “I am stiff from the long flight to be sure, but that will be remedied soon enough. The vastness of Winterfell is good for sparring, no?”

“I don’t presume to know the first thing about sparring, but if Winterfell is anything it is large. Please, feel free to go inside and warm up in the foyer while I greet the others.”

Sansa smiled as Syrio’s form disappeared into the warmth of Winterfell’s living quarters and turned herself toward the car once more. Two older men had emerged from the back, one with light hair worn in a bun at the top and the other a fellow redhead with an eyepatch. The latter was pulling someone out of the very back of the car. With one last pull, a chubby boy plopped down into the snow and a waif-like blonde boy immediately followed. 

It’s the one with the top knot who notices her first. Sansa plasters on her most welcoming smile, “Hello, my name is Sansa Stark. Welcome to Winterfell.”

Top knot stops in his tracks and gives her an exaggerated bow, “My lady, the Red Priest Thoros of Myr at your service.”

Sansa tittered nervously, “You’re a priest?” 

Thoros took her hand in his and placed his lips on it, “A priest yes, whether I’m a good one or not is up to interpretation.” He winked at her, “Never could give up my wine or my women.”

Sansa let out a soft “oh,” before going back to smiling because she had no clue how to respond to this man. 

She was saved by the taller man with the missing eye. “Ignore him, it’s what I do.”

“Ignoring? Is that what we’re calling your memory lapses now?” 

The redhead shook his head and extended his arm to Sansa, “Beric Dondarrion.”

Sansa took his hand to shake, “Forgive me, I’m Sansa. Arya’s older sister.”

The two men looked at each other and then back at her. “Are you sure about that?” Thoros asked. 

Sansa felt awkward again, but luckily the remaining two guests chose that moment to join them. Sansa peeked in between Thoros and Beric and cheerfully greeted them. The chubby boy introduced himself as Hot Pie and the smaller one was Lommy. Sansa looked the group over and if she hadn’t known Arya her entire life, she would be baffled at the questionable names, questionable ages, and questionable sanity of the men that stood before her. But it was Arya, and she would leave their judgment to their mother. 

Sansa saw their driver exiting from the car but her brow scrunched in confusion because he was getting out... From the  _ back _ ? Beric followed her line of sight and rolled his eyes, “Oh that. The driver veered off the road a bit because of the ice and of course Clegane had to go nuclear and take over the driving.”

As Beric finished explaining Sansa heard the driver’s side door violently open and slam shut as the trunk popped open. She heard the heavy crunch of footsteps in the snow and peered around the group to see the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. 

Now, most knew Sansa to be a proper, pious, little lady but she was just as red-blooded as any woman. She had seen men and admired them, seen parts of men, and admired them too. But how could any of that compare to what she was seeing now? Tall and girthy legs stuck out from the trunk crowned by the most perfectly sculpted posterior she had ever gazed upon. Who knew that men could possess something so wondrous? Not Sansa, not until this moment. 

The owner of these amazing legs emerged from the trunk with three bags in each hand. He was deliciously tall and Sansa was treated to the back of his head which was covered in soft-looking wavy black hair tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. A very large thick neck that would be perfect to snuggle against. 

Then he turned around and it was bad. Painful looking burn scars marred the left side of his face and he looked at her with a hateful expression. Though she blanched inwardly, Sansa schooled her expression, looked into his pretty but angry eyes, and gave him what she hoped was a welcoming smile. Although Catelyn’s teachings had not prepared Sansa for drunken priests and people named after pastries, they did teach her how to act with decorum around those with physical peculiarities. She had been polite when faced with Tyrion Lannister’s split open nose pre-rhinoplasty, Jaime Lannister’s stump, and Shireen Baratheon’s greyscale scars. This Clegane man would be no different. 

He stomped purposefully toward them, giving no hint of strain from the almost certainly heavy luggage he was carrying. “Welcome to Winterfell, I am-”

“That the entrance?” he asked her in a brusk tone, jutting his chin towards the double doors behind her.

“Yes,” Sansa answered in a small confused voice as he hiked past her without another word. 

She looked to the others with her mouth agape. Beric shrugged, “That was Sandor.”

Thoros nodded, “And before you ask, nothing’s got his goat. He’s a rude one all of the time.”

Sansa closed her mouth before settling her lips in a devious smile, “I see. As this is your first time in Winterfell and your luggage has been so  _ kindly _ taken care of, would you four like a small tour of Winterfell before I show you to your rooms?”

Beric and Thoros smirked at each other and Hot Pie and Lommy seemed genuinely excited at her offer. They were all shortly packed into a large golf cart that was used to get around the estate, equipped with a fabric cover to keep out the cold. Thoros sat next to her, Lommy and Beric in the next row, and Hot Pie in the back. 

Sansa circled the entire estate, taking them past the first keep, the broken tower, the greenhouse, the Godswood, and the armory before stopping in front of the great keep where they had started. 

They arrived in the foyer with scarlet hued noses and cheeks and were met with a not so jolly giant. Sandor had his arms crossed and his face was drawn in a deep scowl. “Where the fuck have you cunts been?”

Sansa couldn’t help but flinch at Sandor’s course language. She’d been treated to many a curse word from being Arya’s sister but the only people who she’d known to speak with such vulgarity had been Joffrey and Ramsay. Two people she cared not to remember. She composed herself, biting back harsh memories. “I just finished giving them a tour of Winterfell. I assumed you wouldn’t want to come since you were in such a rush to get indoors.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes and glared at her. Sansa could feel herself curling inwards and felt regret over her tit for tat behavior. Ramsay had done so much damage to her physically and he was of average size, what could someone as big as Sandor do? She’s like to think Arya’s friends wouldn’t be dangerous but Arya herself was known to be violent when angered. Fourteen years old Sansa who had spent the better part of a year with a chunk of her hair pulled out could attest to that. 

Sansa looked down at the ground and shoved her trembling hands into the pockets of her coat. She decided to focus on the least intimidating of the group which was the round face of Hot Pie, “I must convey my sister’s apologies for not greeting you herself, Arya is with our mother finalizing the centerpieces for the reception at the moment.”

Sandor barked out a grating laugh next to her, “What I wouldn’t pay to see the wolf bitch doing that!”

Although she was still frightened of the large man and her relationship with Arya was tenuous at best, she was still her sister and Sansa felt the need to stand up for her. She mustered up what courage she had and glared at the offending man, “If you would please not address my sister in such a manner, it would be much appreciated.”

Her tone was stern and she sounded entirely too much like her mother, but it was all Sansa could manage. Sandor merely looked at her with his good eyebrow raised before he spread his mouth into a wide grin like he was intentionally trying to make his burns as horrifying as possible to intimidate her. “What are you going to about it? Chirp your scripted little courtesies at me until I go insane? Think you’d have better luck shutting me up by just telling me what you think. If a genuine thought came spewing out of that empty head of yours I just might drop dead.”

Sansa felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Memories of Joffrey and his mocking tirades flooded into her mind. Maybe it was because she’d been hiding in the North with her family since Ramsay, she’d forgotten that a lot of people didn’t like her and thought she was annoying. Tears wet her eyes and she blinked them away as furiously as possible. Her breath came in short snaps as if her body was begging for a full-blown hyperventilating snot ridden breakdown. But she would not give in.

Sansa had to remind herself of all the times Joffrey had screamed and berated her right before social gatherings. If she had been able to keep it together then she could do it now. Plus, these were Arya’s friends. The last thing she needed was Arya getting mad at her because she made a scene in front of them. She heard Thoros tell Sandor to stop being such an ass but it almost sounded far away or like she was hearing it underwater. Sansa looked clasped her hands together and looked out the ground, “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

She hated how small and weak her voice sounded as she showed them to Winterfell’s guest chambers and bid them to choose the room most suited to them. Sansa then ran away in the most composed manner she could. She headed towards the kitchen, is that not where one always ended up when emotionally compromised? 

On her way there she passed one of the housekeepers and nearly told her to move Sandor to one of the rooms with an oversized bed. Winterfell regularly plays host to the Umbers and Lord Royce, so the Starks were no strangers in providing comforts for the vertically gifted. But something inside Sansa stopped herself. Something that was sick of people treating her so badly. 

Sansa wasn’t an entirely unaware being. Maturity had given her the insight that she could be bratty, selfish, and horribly naive. She cringed at most of the actions of herself when she was a child. If she had done something of the like to Sandor she could maybe understand his behavior, but he’d been unpleasant to her before she even had a chance to speak! And if he wanted to act like that then he could sleep with his cold feet hanging off the edge of the bed.

She finally made her way to the kitchen and promptly pulled out a carton of lemon bar gelato and a single spoon. It wasn’t until metal hit sweet lemony confection that her tears fell and her soft sobs were quieted with spoonfuls of the frozen dessert. 

It was all too much. Sansa had spent nearly a year with Jon up at the Wall recovering after Ramsay. Everyone and everything had been scary after that but the Free Folk could be as kind as they were harsh. They hadn’t understood her at all but it was the first time in years no one had spoken down to her and made her feel like nothing. 

Perhaps she had made a mistake in leaving. She had come back home due to her parent’s pleas but life was empty for her here. Trust did not come easily to her anymore. 

Trust was your “best friend” getting engaged to your abusive ex-fiance because she wanted a title. Trust meant your creepy uncle Petyr offered you a place to stay, only to get inappropriate with you. Trust meant you fell for another boy’s charms only to find out he’d fathered two children during your relationship. Trust meant you believed your new boyfriend when he said he wouldn’t hit you if you were good.

Suffice it to say, something about Sansa just screamed to people that they could walk all over her. Sandor was one of many who hated Sansa for some indiscernible reason. 

In the midst of her sugar fueled mental collapse, Sansa failed to hear the shuffling of feet before their owners materialized before her. In front of her soggy, blotchy, gelato smeared face stood Lommy and Hot Pie. “I-”

Lommy waved her off, “We get it. The Hound’s super scary isn’t he? Why do you think we holed up in the back of the car far away from him?”

“Hound?”

“That’s what the called ‘im back when he was working for the Canisters,” Hot Pie offered as he began rummaging through the kitchen.

“You mean Lannisters?” Sansa supplied.

Lommy sat across from her, “Yep, they called him that because he and his brother were so loyal to them. Then when he left and began fighting the name stuck. People say he’s more ferocious without them. Like a dog without a master.”

“Where do you keep your flour?”

Sansa turned to Hot Pie, “Over there. You know if you need anything made you can go down to the service kitchen, we have a full-time chef that can make you anything you’d like.”

Hot Pie shook his head, “No thanks, I’m an apprentice at a bakery and a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. Might go down there to observe ‘im or ‘er but I’m crazy hungry right now. Traveling does build up an appetite. Any requests Sansa?”

“Do you know how to make lemon cakes?”  
Hot Pie pulled out his phone, “No, but someone on the internet probably does. Thanks for the map by the way.”

Sansa had wet a paper towel and was dabbing away at what was surely her ruined makeup, “I’m glad you found it, I must have forgotten to mention it while I was showing you the rooms.” 

Sansa omitted the fact that she had not mentioned it on purpose because the last thing she needed was Sandor making a comment about how she must have a ton of free time on her hands to have printed a map of the castle and the itinerary for the next few days. She had also bound them into cute little booklets that were placed on the guest’s bedside tables.

Lommy had one in his hand, which was green and resting on the island counter. “Don’t worry, I’ve not got the plague or anything. I work at a factory dyeing fabric.”

Sansa’s ears perked up and she thought of her studio in her wing of the family quarters. “Oh, I-”

“I knew you lot would be where the food’s at!”

Sansa was interrupted by Arya’s booming voice and she looked to see her sister enter the kitchen with their mother behind her, casting a disapproving glare at her younger daughter’s loudness. Gendry brought up the rear looking utterly exhausted. 

Arya greeted both Lommy and Hot Pie with a punch to the arm and a side hug. Sansa introduced her mother to them because the gods know Arya wasn’t going to do it. Catelyn reminded Arya to let her guests know that they ate in an hour and then flitted away to check on the chef and the table decor for tonight. 

The four reunited friends were chatting at each other with excitement and Sansa had quickly turned into the fifth wheel, so she slipped out. She wandered around Winterfell for a while as she knew tonight’s dinner was casual so she would not be required to dress up. 

Her walk took her to the Godswood. As a child, she had idolized her mother and steered more towards the Faith of the Seven, but the Godswood had provided her only comfort when she was alone in King’s Landing, alone in the Vale, and alone at the Dreadfort. 

She heard the gate open and a black Jeep drove through the entrance. It slowed when the headlights shone on her and the passenger side window rolled down. Jon’s face peered through the other side, “Want a ride up?”

Sansa smiled and hurriedly opened the car door. Once she was inside she gave Jon as best of a hug as she could with the divide between their seats, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Jon nodded and studied her face, “I am too, have you been crying? Your eyes are red and you’re sniffling.”

“It’s been a long day. It’s no matter, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Sansa put her hands on the small vents spewing hot air and eyed him, “Maybe I should come up for a visit.”

“You were already there for the funeral Sans. I’m okay.”

“If you say so.”

Jon had been in a relationship with a Free Folk girl. Her name was Ygritte and she was tough, funny, and caring in her own special way. Sansa was the only one who had known her or knew about her at all. They’d only been dating for a short while when she died in a climbing accident, but she was Jon’s first girlfriend and Sansa knew he had loved her fiercely. In his grief, Jon hadn’t wanted to explain the entire situation to 15 different people so he elected to say nothing and grieve on his own. 

That, Sansa understood. She had done the same with her struggles. The inevitable drama between her parents and the Baratheons, Lannisters, Boltons, and her aunt Lysa kept her from saying anything to them. And she never figured out the right way to tell her mother and father she’d been left a bloody pulp by her significant other not once but twice.

That was why she had called Jon. They’d never been close but Jon was smart, safe, and him being a police officer didn’t hurt. He never asked her what happened, just took her to the hospital and blackmailed the Lannisters and Boltons with the evidence of her injuries. She still had the files hidden in her room, though they were both dead. 

“I’m assuming by your location I am not late for dinner.”

“Nope.”

Jon scratched his beard, “That’s…  _ Fortunate _ .” 

Sansa laughed as they came to a stop. Surprising no one, Arya was waiting outside and launched herself at Jon the moment she saw him. She frowned when she saw Sansa exit the vehicle. The rest of their brothers and their father emerged to greet Jon. Catelyn merely came out to give Jon an icy nod of acknowledgment and announce that it was time for dinner. 

They all filed into the formal dining room which was fairly large but nothing compared to the great hall, where the wedding reception would take place. Sansa noticed that her mother had already wrangled Arya’s friends together and seated them. 

Arya placed herself next to Sandor with Gendry flanking her left. Then to everyone’s horror, she greeted Sandor as “fuckface” to which he replied with the now familiar “wolf bitch.”

Sansa couldn’t help but feel foolish knowing that it was just a foul-mouthed nickname she had gotten so upset about, but it still gave him no excuse for treating her that way. Sansa sat herself in between Jon and Rickon, far away from Sandor. 

People were engrossed in their own conversations for the majority of the dinner. Their father had hit it off with Beric and Thoros, their mother doted over Bran, Arya, Syrio, and Sandor argued about the best way to kill a man the whole night, and she and Jon listened to Rickon complain about his school the whole time. 

“Arya ran away for an entire year and they didn’t send her away! I make one little mistake and they ship me off to an island where they used to eat children.”

Sansa looked at her younger brother, “I wouldn’t call stealing dad’s car and car surfing and ghost riding with your friends a small mistake.”

“And I think they were cannibals in general, they didn’t single out the children.”

Sansa gave Jon a disapproving look which he returned with a sheepish grin. Rickon let out a long groan beside them, “Dessert, finally.”

The last course was a non-threatening cheesecake, a safe choice for her mother to have served to a group of strangers. And sitting next to it on the plate was a gorgeous looking lemon cake. Her mother had turned to the baker in question, “Now… Hot Pie, I’m told by the chef you baked these lemon cakes and they are quite delicious.”

Hot Pie’s face flushed at Catelyn’s compliment while Arya fixed on Sansa with an accusatory glare. “You made my friend bake you lemon cakes?”

Sansa could feel her face start to burn in embarrassment as everyone turned to look at her. “No, he was baking and asked if I would like anything in particular.” She did not mention that he had been trying to cheer her up after finding her a sopping mess in the kitchen.

Arya huffed, “No one else like lemon cakes.”

Sansa bit her tongue which was about to question the validity of that statement and start an argument with her sister. She could feel Jon shift in his seat next to her, “Arya there’s another dessert.”

Arya glared at Jon, “Since when do you stick up for her? She spent our entire childhood reminding everyone you weren’t actually our brother but she runs to you after her boyfriend dumps her and suddenly you two are chummy?”

At the mention of Ramsay, she started to tremble and hyperventilate. She had to stifle her laughter at Arya’s description of the end of that relationship. Dumped. If one could call three broken ribs and severe bruising over two-thirds of her body getting “dumped.” 

Then she was merely mad. Mad that no one knew, mad it was too hard to talk about. Sansa stood up, “If you’ll excuse me.”

She exited without a word and went outside to catch her breath. She sat with her arms curled around her knees, without a jacket, crying for the second time that day. She didn’t know how long she’d been there when she felt the warmth of a jacket that was just worn hit her shoulders. Assuming it was one of her brothers or her father she didn’t immediately look up. When she did, it was to see Sandor Clegane’s tall figure retreat back inside. Beside her was a plate with a creamy puddle from an absent cheesecake, a spoon, and an intact lemon cake. 


	2. Sarcastic Mr. Know-It-All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't try to swindle me because I like cake."
> 
> -Angela (90 Day Fiance), Sansa (Chapter 2)

Sandor woke with his feet numb from the ankles down and cursed himself for being so damn tall. The view from his room was beautiful, a fresh layer of snow blanketed Winterfell making it look like something out of a postcard. But the scenery did little to move the iron ball that stuck in his gut. It had been there, weighing on him heavily since he received the little runt’s wedding invitation. It had come with all the pleasant bits crossed out in thick black marker and the words “cordially invite you” had some colorful language written above it in Arya’s chicken scrawl handwriting. Sandor still had it taped to his fridge. 

This will be the fifth wedding that he’s attended. The first had been Cersei’s wedding to Robert. He’d been thirteen, looking like he was eighteen and working illegally for the Lannisters. Robert was piss drunk the whole time and the fight that ensued during their first night as man and wife was the stuff of legends. Due to the hyena-like pitch Cersei’s voice took on when she was upset, everyone on the same floor as them soon learned that wasted Robert had called out Lyanna Stark’s name in bed. 

The other three… They had been Gregor’s. Sandor would have rather walked through fire than to have gone to them but they were always Lannister affairs. He could picture them now, too young and offered up by their families in hopes of landing in the Lannister’s good graces. Handpicked by the Lannisters, paid for by the Lannisters, and attended by the Lannisters. Which meant he had to go because good dogs didn’t stray from their masters. 

They’d all died. In ways Sandor didn’t like to think about. The second one had been smart, killed herself not long after they were married. It was enough to put him off of weddings. But there was another reason Sandor didn’t like weddings, and the physical manifestation of that reason was lurking somewhere in this castle with her long fiery hair and gorgeous blue eyes. 

He noticed her as soon as they pulled in. She’d stood there in the cold looking like the Maiden in the flesh. Nothing too small or big. Utterly maliciously perfect. Her melodic voiced waded through the air and when she smiled at him, he’d felt things he didn’t want to feel. It was a want for something he could never have. 

There will be no wedding for him. No happy bride or wailing children in his future. Sure, a lot of women overlooked the scars, especially considering the rest of him wasn’t too shabby. But his face wasn’t the only thing that was fucked up. Sandor was fucked down to his bones. Nothing, nothing would ever erase Gregor from his memory. Not the wine, not the fighting, not even Gregor’s death. 

He didn’t get drunk every day anymore and he no longer used violence as a way of blowing off steam, but Sandor would not call himself a good man. He was disagreeable, he hated people for the most part, and he could be a mean fucker. His words to her echoed in his mind like a broken tape, cloaking him in so much guilt he still felt dirty after taking a shower. 

She’d been sweet and innocent, and it had pissed him off to no end. He should have taken her trembling and crumpling away from him like a wilted flower as a fucking hint that he didn’t snap at someone who was well adjusted. It had only clicked when Arya had thrown that little fit at dinner and mentioned her sister’s ex-boyfriend. She’d sat up ramrod straight with her eyes wild and her chest moving quickly. Sandor had enough flashbacks himself to know what one looked like. 

He eyed the little book on the table next to his bed and snatched it into his hands. The map had been printed but the small welcome letter on the front and the schedule for today and tomorrow had been handwritten in neat calligraphy. Sandor wished Gregor had ripped out his tongue along with burning half his face off. 

As he leafed through the pages and landed on the plan for the day he realized he’d been stewing in his thoughts for a good while. His hair had dried, the towel wrapped around his waist was cold and damp, and he was already late for breakfast. 

When he arrived in the dining room shortly thereafter, the atmosphere in the room was tense, to say the least. Not that Sandor expected any less after last night. If the argument between the two sisters hadn’t been enough, Catelyn Stark had politely excused everyone except Arya. She hadn’t told him how that conversation went but they’d stayed up in one of the common areas throwing knives and her aim had been shit, so it couldn’t have been good. 

He didn’t apologize for being late and he hadn’t needed to, barely anyone noticed him enter. Arya and Catelyn sat across from one another and seemed to be in some sort of showdown. Arya’s face was flushed completely red and Catelyn’s face was turned to the side, refusing to meet her daughter’s gaze. The little bird sat next to her mother, focusing on some papers in her hands. 

Sandor sat down next to Syrio as Arya inched her body over the table, “I don’t get the point of this at all.”

The Stark matriarch finally faced her younger daughter, “You have to have bridesmaids Arya, it’s tradition.”

Sandor leaned over to Thoros, “The fuck’s going on now?”

Thoros artfully pawed Beric’s mimosa away from him while he wasn’t looking and downed it in one gulp, “Too many cocks, not enough hens.”

Arya had apparently had enough and dropped her head back so it hung over her chair. Catelyn let out a trite sigh, “Perhaps Jeyne-”

Arya’s head snapped upright, “No, she’s a bitch!”

“Arya. Language,” came Ned Stark’s stern tone, but he soon returned to dissecting the basket of muffins on the table. The rest of the Starks seemed equally disinterested and resigned towards the rising conflict. Sandor supposed it was business as usual for them.

Catelyn fixed her faced with a faulty smile, “We don’t have a choice, you don’t have any girlfriends.”

_ With a mother like you does she need any more raving bitches in her life?  _ Sandor grimaced as Arya huffed in defiant defeat. Her sister sighed, “At least this way we can match everyone by height. It’ll make the pictures look nice.”

“So then…” Catelyn looked around and her eyes landed on him, the tallest and ugliest of the groomsmen…  _ Bridesmen _ ? Her face scrunched like she hadn’t shat in a few days and then turned to her daughter, “Him, and?”

The younger redhead refused to look at him as she answered her mother, “Brienne’s the tallest.”

Laughter erupted from the wolf bitch, topped off with a resounding burst of snorting, “That’s not going to happen.”

“Arya-”

“It’s not me,” Arya interrupted, “It’s because  _ someone _ is a big giant pussy who won’t go near Brienne because she ran him over.”

Ned didn’t bother to correct her language. Thoros cleared his throat, “To this day, the Lady Tarth insists it was an accident.”

“The hell it was,” he growled out.

He saw Arya’s older sister’s lips quirk into a small smile. She thought him getting maimed was funny then? Fair enough, he supposed he deserved it. “You’re the next tallest,” Arya said to her older sister. 

At her sister’s proclamation, her smile disappeared and it was his turn for his mouth to twitch upwards though it was laced with a hint of bitterness. The most beautiful girl in this godsdamned region forced to accompany him. She didn’t fight it, probably wouldn’t have come to anything seeing as it was her idea in the first place. 

The rest of the meal was spent sorting out everybody else. Thoros and the two younger Stark boys recused themselves on the basis of age, the slimy bastards. Robb Stark was set with his wife Talisa and Jon Snow with his aunt. Beric got the Jeyne bitch, Syrio was with Lyanna Mormont, Lommy with Alys Karstark, and Hot Pie with a something Manderly. Sounded like her name was Wily. Apparently, they were all fellow high society girls who could be roped into the duty. He wasn’t surprised at the Stark’s influence, after all, they’d paid for everyone’s travel expenses, bought all their wedding attire, and offered to write letters to employers if anyone had any trouble. 

When it was all sorted, most of the Starks disbanded and left to do whatever. Only rippling auburn hair stood before them now in a scene reminiscent of yesterday. She tugged at the sleeves of her sweater, “The next item for today is to alter everyone’s tuxes. It’ll be easier if we do it one-by-one.”

Hot Pie volunteered to go first so Sandor went to go find Arya. He found her in the armory, sitting on a wooden catapult and playing some type of math game on her phone. Nobody who saw or talked to her would pin her as the brainy type, least of all the fucking accountant she was. She looked up as she noticed him, “Gods, you’re quiet for a big fuck.”

He ignored her and looked around, “Anything interesting in here? I missed the tour yesterday.”

Arya’s eyes glinted in concealed excitement, “It’s a bloody armory, what do you think?”

She perused the walls which had a variety of weapons hanging on them. She swiped at a black dagger with her tiny hands and held it out to him, “Obsidian. They used to call it Dragonglass and supposedly it killed white walkers.”

He took the dagger from her and spun it around in his hand, feeling the uneven texture under his thumb. “I heard from Hot Pie you made my sister cry yesterday.”

He looked into her eyes, “So did you.”

Arya shrugged, “Easy to do, she’s always been like that. She cries and blames everyone else and Mom and Dad feel sorry for her because she’s their sweet delicate girl.”

“Why’d she do it in private then?”

Arya glared at him and huffed, “I don’t know. Maybe because throwing tantrums when you’re an adult is embarrassing? I don’t fucking understand her.”

“Sure didn’t stop you.”

Arya punched his arm hard but gave him a grin before her face soured, “This is such bullshit. Why the hell do I need  _ bridesmaids _ at all? Half of them I barely know and the other half used to torment me.”

“ _ It’ll make the pictures look nice, _ ” Arya said while pitching her voice higher. “Maybe Jeyne can write horseface under my picture like she used to do in my yearbooks.” 

“Better than Freddy Kreuger.”

She looked at him and laughed, “You ever dress up as him? I bet you could scare some people into a few heart attacks.” 

Sandor barked out a raspy laugh at that. Arya was silent for a moment before speaking again. “If you were my dad you wouldn’t make me do any of this shit.”

He handed her back the dagger, “I’m not descended from a thousands years old royal bloodline.”

Arya shook her head, “Gendry doesn’t like this fancy stuff either. You know how he feels about rich people. He’s only doing it because he doesn’t want my parents to be mad at me like they were when Robb eloped with Talisa.”

“Seems like you picked a winner then,” he said, earning himself a glare from Arya, “And don’t compare me to your father. I’m not that old.”

“You said you lost your virginity when you were twelve, you’re old enough then.”

“When did I tell you that?”  
Arya smirked, “When you were drunk.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, “Glad I don’t get pissed like that anymore.”

“Too bad you decided that after you’d spilled your guts.”

Sandor snarled at her, “I looked older than twelve alright?”

“Was it the scars or the fact that you look like one of those cows they shoot up with growth hormones?”

He placed his hand on the top of her head, “The height. You’ll be gray and shriveled up and I bet people will still mistake you for a child.”

Arya batted his hand away, “Screw you.”

A voice interrupted them, “There you are little one, big one.” 

One turn of the head toward the entrance found Syrio, “It is time for you to do the altering,” he directed to Sandor. 

Arya laughed at him, “Good luck. Third floor, red wolf on the door.”

Sandor followed her instructions, choosing to take the stairs instead of the elevator as they always made him claustrophobic. Sure enough, there was a wooden door with a red wolf painted on down the stone hallway. Trying to be somewhat polite, Sandor knocked on the door and winced when it came out as more of a demanding boom. 

The door creaked as it opened revealing the most ravishing creature to ever exist. She gave Sandor and unsure smile and ushered him in. He was surprised by what greeted him, a modern living room overlooking a thicket of Weirwood trees dusted in snow and a small retro-looking kitchenette. “I know it’s jarring. The family quarters are all renovated thanks to Grandfather. It was a nightmare to be sure but he was determined.”

Sandor gave her a questioning look, “Everything has to be approved by the historical society and only special contractors that are versed in the construction methods used back then can do the work. It’s very costly and time-intensive. If you ask me if it’s so important to them they should be the ones paying for the maintenance of Winterfell… I’m sorry,” she apologized nervously and motioned to a room past the kitchen, “You’ll find your suit hanging up in there. Please put it on for the alterations.”

Sandor nodded and tried to make sense of why the alterations were taking place in what was obviously her small apartment within Winterfell. Closing the door behind him, he saw that his suit was hanging up as she said it would be but that’s not what drew his eye. As he undressed and put on his tux, he took in the rest of the room. It was large with sketches tacked all over the walls, heaps of small fabric pieces sat on a large table, and there were three headless mannequin type things spaced throughout the room. 

One of the forms had a top on it with various patches of fur placed across it. Sandor had just placed his fingers on the slippery fur when he heard a series of small knocks on the door. “Are you decent?”

Sandor snorted, “As I’ll ever be, girl.”

She walked in and saw what he was looking at. A rosy blush formed over her cheeks, “Oh, that’s a piece for the Freefolk museum at the Wall. I usually use faux fur but it’s the traditional way to use the fur of animals they’ve hunted.”

“Ah,” Sandor said like he understood what the hell she was talking about.

She grabbed a stool and a tape measure, “We should get started.”

He stood as still as possible while she measured him and tried to ignore the fact that she smelled like honey and that the hand measuring his inseam was dangerously close to his burgeoning hard-on. Finally, she got on her stool to measure his chest and arms. But only to start talking with her warm breath blowing near his ear. “It’s very sad,” she murmured quietly. 

“What is?”

“Most of their history was lost and that’s why I have to recreate a lot of the clothing. Did you know the Old Tongue was banned up until a few decades ago?”

Sandor watched as she put the tape measure away and grab a pin cushion which she fastened around her wrist. “So, you make clothes?”

He cringed at how clueless he sounded but her face seemed to light up. “I studied fashion and history. I mostly make period costumes for museums, plays, films, and TV. And whatever my family wants me to make, of course.”

“You can study fashion?”

She let out a long-suffering sigh, “Yes. I don’t know why everyone asks that, it’s such an important part of history. It’s like a sociological fossil record! It reflected economics, religion, and who was in power. One person could influence an entire country’s wardrobe!”

As she made her points she grew increasingly aggressive with the pins. “I get it Little Bird, easy on the pins.”

“Sorry. Wait, Little Bird? Oh.” 

Understanding washed over her and her face turned a dark scarlet, reminding him of Arya when she was mad. “I don’t know your name, girl.”

That seemed to make her even more furious, “You don’t know my name? You felt you knew me enough to call me empty-head but you don’t even know my name?”

“I shouldn’t have said that yesterday.”

“That’s not an apology. And neither is cake.”

Sandor scowled. One of the nice things about being around crap people your entire life is that you’re always better than them. He can’t think of a single time he’s ever apologized to anyone. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

The scowl returned, “What do you mean, for? For being an ass!”

She placed her hands on her hips, “No! For making an assumption and calling me dumb and disingenuous when you didn’t even know me. Is it so hard for you to give a proper apology? Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”

“Nope, too busy being dead.”

Her arms fell slack, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t be, I’m not. Maybe for my mom but my father was a cunt.”

She wrung her hands together and began to help him take off his jacket, “Still it wasn’t right.”

He shook his head. “It’s not just about the chirping.”

“What?”

“You look like one of those pretty red birds from the Summer Isles.”

Well, Sandor didn’t know what the fuck that was and why it had come out of him. It was the truth but he knew who he was and who she was. There was no sense in saying something that was teetering on the edge of flirting. He turned around to find her red from her ears down, holding his suit jacket. It occurred to him that she hadn’t given him his jacket back from the previous night. 

She set it down and pointed to one of the creepy headless human forms before sorting through a drawer for something. “The bridesmaids will be wearing blue.”

He looked at the pale blue dress made out of some sort of sheer fabric. “You going to be warm enough in that thing?”

She laughed, “Northern wedding ceremonies are incredibly short. Very Arya. We won’t even have chairs in the Godswood.”

Pulling away from the drawer with a triumphant look on her face she presented him with two silver cufflinks. “Everything will be sent up to your room tomorrow morning.”

Sandor nodded and looked around the room, or more specifically what was sitting next to it. “Is that the dress?”

She gave him a strained smile, “Yes.”

“It’s very… ” he shook the tulle skirt, “Poofy.”

As he took his hand away, the skirt continued to move and shake before what looked like a giant dog emerged from underneath the fabric. “Lady! That’s where you’ve been.”

“Lady” sauntered over to him and politely sniffed his hand in greeting. “That’s Lady, I got her-”

“Aye, I’ve heard the story from the short one.” Sandor had heard all about how the wolf hybrid pups had been abandoned at the wolf sanctuary in the Wolfswood and how the Starks had adopted them. Arya seemed almost prideful when she told him her Nymeria had been too wild and had to be sent to the sanctuary, where she was now the alpha female of the pack there. 

She nodded in understanding, “How did you two meet?”

“Drunk tank when she was fifteen.”

“So the year she ran away. Funny, we never heard about her getting arrested. Aren’t the police supposed to notify the parents of missing children?”

Sandor laughed, “Yes unless the fifteen-year-old is posing as an eighteen-year-old boy named Arry. That’s the reason we were held in the same cell. I bailed her out and we traveled together for a bit.”

“You didn’t think to call her family?” Her tone wasn’t accusatory but curious. 

Sandor shrugged, “I ran away when I was twelve. Wasn’t my business if she didn’t want to be home, just kept her safe.”

She gave him a long look. “I want to show you something and get your opinion, but you have to swear not to tell anyone.”

“Sure.”

Trying not to let his curiosity show too much, Sandor watched as she pulled a curtain strung up in one of the back corners of the room down. She wheeled a form with a dress on it towards him. “I made it for her, for tomorrow.”

She gestured towards the dress, “I did an off the shoulders bodice in soft brown leather and the skirt is a brown poplin.”

She pointed at the necklace on the form that wrapped around the neck and met at the front with two wolf profiles, “Silver. Do you think she’ll like it?”

Sandor understood virtually none of the words that had spilled out of her mouth and he was too afraid to ask if poplin was a sex thing. But the dress was Arya, almost literally. Grey steel and a syrupy brown. “If she doesn’t like it I’ll wear it tomorrow.”

She laughed freely and momentarily placed her hand on his chest. When she pulled it away he could almost feel the outline of her dainty appendage burning into his skin. “I’ll let you get changed back into your clothes. And Sandor?”

“Hmm?”

“My name is Sansa.”


	3. Close Your Eyes and I'll Kiss You 'Cause

A Northern wedding ceremony was short to be sure, and its rehearsal was sure to be shorter. So Sansa was certain that between the cursory nature of the mock ceremony and the heaters that lined the path to the heart tree that no one would grow too uncomfortable in the cold air of late afternoon. But the same could not be said for the maid of honor who had spent the past hour supervising the installation of lights on the trunks of the weirwood trees. 

Looking at the finished product, Sansa decided that the chill seeping further into her body was worth it. Thinking white or blue would read too holiday, she’d chosen lights that were a warm yellowish-orange. In the darkening sky, they lit the red leaves of the weirwood trees aflame and imparted a magical aura befitting a godswood. 

She thanked the gardeners for their work as they left for the evening and was admiring the scenery when she heard the snow crunch close behind her. Whirling around with her heart hammering in her chest on instinct, she let out a sigh of relief and felt her body go lax at the sight of Sandor. He gave her a serious look and scowled. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Sansa shook her head, “No, it’s okay. I just startle easily sometimes is all.”

She turned back around and gestured at the grove of glittering garnet trees before them, “Do you like it?”

She observed him while he shifted his weight, “I guess.”

His voice was gruff but there was a tautness to it that Sansa assumed was his best attempt at lying. Not that she was one to pass judgment, she was possibly one of the worst liars to ever exist. Every tic one could have to denote they were fibbing Sansa had, and usually she had them all at once. That trait had made her relationship with Ramsay  _ extra _ fun. 

“You guess?”

He had come to stand beside her and was quiet for a moment. “Don’t like fire much. The whole place looks like it’s up in damn flames.”

“Oh.”

She watched him eye the heaters, each with a flame dancing along its length and then glance up at the canopy of leaves that looked as if they were burning away at the edges of the sky. She looked at the fissures on the scarred side of his face cast in black shadows by the retired daylight and regretted not considering him. Although she couldn’t think of another way to keep everyone warm outside and the only other option they had were the old fashioned torches which would bother him more. At least the flames in these were contained in glass. “I’ve never been to a wedding in the north, how long is this thing going to be?”

Sansa ignored the biting edge in his voice, knowing it was just the fear that was making him growly. “Brief. Gendry will come and stand by the heart tree. Then the bridal party will walk down and we’ll take our places on either side. Arya and Father will do their walk, he’ll give her away, and they kiss and kneel in front of the heart tree. It would be even shorter but Mother insisted on having the bridal party, it’s more of a southron thing.”

Sansa peeled off her gloves and tried to warm them with her breath. She’d dressed warmly but she had just been outside for too long. “That’s when everyone shows up, which is hopefully soon.”

Sandor seized her hands, encasing them in his own large ones. He pressed his skin firmly against hers, “How are you so warm?”

Sandor let out a raspy laugh taunting her, “How are you so cold? Aren’t you supposed to be a northerner?”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him playfully, “It’s because you’re so big.”

“You calling me fat?”

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. As the heat from his palms radiated into her own and she observed the fine black hairs that decorated his knuckles Sansa felt a blush climb its way up her neck. She tried valiantly to forget that she had detected a similar patch of hair while measuring his torso earlier in the day. Also on the list of voluntary memory loss was the instinctive squeeze of her thighs when she put her dress on for the evening, randomly wondering if he would like it as she thought on how he was big in  _ all  _ areas if his inseam measurement was anything to go by. But it was no use and all she could do was avert her eyes from Sandor’s ever discerning ones and look down at her hands eclipsed in his. 

Sansa had never been deeply attracted to someone like Sandor before, though she supposed her experience was limited. She’d been attracted to Joffrey for his family name, Harry was undeniably gorgeous but his nasty personality ruined it, and she’d found Ramsay kind of ugly. Perhaps it was the cold getting to her but Sandor, albeit rude, had a very cozy feel about him and his potential as a personal heater somewhat aroused her. 

It was her mother that saved her from her intrusive thoughts. Catelyn Stark descended on the godswood like a graceful tornado hellbent on re-inspecting the outdoor accommodations for the evening. Sansa greeted her mother, who was adjusting the heaters. “Is everything set for dinner? Is Bran doing okay?”

At the mention of her brother’s name her mother stopped her fiddling, a pleased smile making its way onto her face. “Yes, he’s doing excellent. The food tastes wonderful.”

Sansa turned back to Sandor. “Bran’s making the dinner tonight. He’s finishing up culinary school next year and he’s an amazing chef. It’s his dream to open up some type of wilderness restaurant in the Haunted Forest. I don’t really understand but he seems excited about it.”

Sandor looked like he was thinking. “The one in the chair, right? 

“Yes. My parents don’t understand why he wants to live out in the woods given his condition but I think he just wants independence. My parents haven’t really accepted that he’s going to be this way for the rest of his life.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Car accident when he was eleven. Bran was climbing trees which he wasn’t supposed to be doing, climbed a really old one and fell with a broken branch straight into an oncoming car.”

“Who was it?”

Sansa shrugged, “Who knows? They drove away.” 

Sansa decided to leave it at that because Bran did know who hit him but refused to tell anyone who it was. Their parents had initially chalked it up to trauma but years of his silence on the subject made it into a huge point of contention in the Stark household. 

Her mother had placed herself beside her father at the entrance to the godswood to greet the people slowly trickling in. “They don’t need to worry about him. He’s got a full-time caregiver that’s been with him for years and every wheelchair modification you could think of. He’s got an ATV Sandor. An ATV.”

Sandor’s upper lip twitched into an almost smile and Sansa could guess he must be thinking how spoiled they all were. In an instant, she felt his mood shift and his expression sour. When he spoke it was in a low rumbling cadence, “It’s good he has all that shit, means they care. A lot of parents don’t.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say in response to his shift of tone, but luckily everyone had arrived at that point and she didn’t have to say anything. Gendry took his place at the heart tree and Sansa linked Sandor’s arm in hers, “We’re up first.” 

Sandor squeezed her arm tightly whenever they passed a heater and she made sure to give a reassuring squeeze back when they had to part and take their respective places. Talisa soon stood next to her and Robb behind Sandor, though he was nearly completely hidden by the larger man. The only hint of him was a halo of cinnamon curls around Sandor’s shoulder. 

Since the rest of the bridesmaids would not be here till tomorrow Beric and Jon walked together, followed by Lommy and Hot Pie, and finally Syrio dancing down the aisle by himself. Then Arya came with their father, making faces the whole time. Sansa saw both her mother and Gendry tear up. Arya promptly slapped the latter on the arm and told him it wasn’t even the real thing. 

There were a number of things about Arya that Sansa was envious of. Her ease of making friends, knowing herself, her strength, but Gendry was one of the big ones. It was childish and uninspired but Sansa had been dreaming about her happy ending since she could talk. Her childhood was filled with love. Love stories, love songs, love poems. All she had ever gotten from it was a dangerous way of navigating relationships. Sansa craved to be loved as Gendry loved Arya. He was passionate and just as stubborn if not more as she was, but he cherished her. Arya would never know the pain Sansa had suffered at the hands of her former lovers, not with him. 

Once the run-through was finished, the Starks led their guests to the other end of the godswood. At Sandor’s questioning gaze Sansa explained, “The rehearsal dinner is being held in the glass garden.”

“That doesn’t answer anything girl.”

“It’s what the conservatory is called.”

Sansa pointed at the glowing structure ahead of them. The centuries old glass was opaque, letting only the light from within travel through to the outside. She saw him quirk his brow upwards. “Someone mentioned you used to work for the Lannisters. Please don’t try to fool me into thinking you’ve never been witness to things like this.”

He tensed before shoving his hands in his coat pockets, “They don’t have much of this shit at the Rock, not since Tywin lost the battle to keep the beaches private. I suppose he could use the zoo the Lannisters of old used to chain animals up in. Nothing sets the mood for a party quite like cages, shackles, and medieval animal abuse.”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe not parties, but I’ll bet he’s had a few business meetings there.” 

“Might be. I was Cersei’s bodyguard and then I was Joffrey’s so I spent most of my time working for them in King’s Landing. And the Red Keep’s almost all reserved for tourism so no parties there.”

Sansa knew that very well. The money received from tourism was essential to keep the massive castle in good repair but Cersei detested anyone who wasn’t wealthy, so she had raised her children on a sprawling estate in Rhaenys’ Hill. “You must have left them a number of years ago. I never saw you when I was engaged to Joffrey.”

Sandor’s face contorted into what could only be called a snarl, “You were engaged to that maggot?”

“Yes.”

The disgust was apparent on his face, “Why?”

She’d asked herself that same question a million times over the years. “Because I was a stupid girl with stupid dreams.”

He’d given her an odd look in return for her odd answer, but they’d already arrived at their destination so Sansa decided to go on ahead. Her mother had done an outstanding job as expected. String lights draped across the building illuminating the lush greenery and there was a large white wooden table waiting for them in the center of the garden. In the corner, there was a violinist, a cellist, and a guitarist playing soft music. The table was laced in white camellia flowers and held a number of place settings complete with their names. 

Her father sat at the head of the table, flanked by her mother on the right and Arya on the left. Sansa was seated with Sandor to her left and Jon to her right. Rickon and Thoros sat on the very end, seemingly delighted in their distance from the rest of the guests. Offhandedly, Sansa wondered if Bran insisted on cooking this meal as his “wedding gift” simply to miss out on as much of the family time as possible. If so, she could not blame him and she was sure Uncle Benjen was doing the same with his excuses for not being able to make it out until tomorrow morning. 

She wished she could have done the same but there seemed to be some rule that your sister  _ must _ be involved in your wedding planning. Sansa sent Robb a few glares during the first three courses of the meal simply because  _ he _ was never asked to help. 

The food was delicious and made her swoon with pride internally for her brother. It was a ten-course tasting menu and was meant to take a few hours. The room quickly evolved with a mixture of laughter, talking, and music. Sansa looked at Jon, waiting for him to stop chewing so she could ask him a question. “Did you manage to send the photos of Daenerys’ dress to her?”

Jon nodded and gave her a thumbs up before swallowing his food. “Yes. She said it was beautiful like everything else you make.”

Daenerys’ was Jon’s aunt, though he was actually two years her senior. The royal family was plagued by a great number of misfortunes around the time Jon was born. Between Aerys having a mental breakdown and Jon’s father Rhaegar leaving his terminally ill wife and impregnating a teenaged Lyanna Stark, public opinion had laid waste to the Targaryen family. They had found actual ruin when Rhaegar, aunt Lyanna, and Jon’s siblings had been killed when their drunk chauffeur ran them off the road. Jon had been the sole survivor, shielded from the impact by his mother’s body. 

Their father had immediately taken him in and changed his name to disassociate him from the family. Dany’s mother had gone east in her grief and vowed never to return to Westeros, leaving everything in the hands of Robert, a distant cousin. Despite her brother having to be institutionalized like Aerys, Dany had made great strides politically in Essos and was a renowned human rights activist. Sansa thought she was very close to coming back to Westeros and ascending the throne and when she did, Sansa wanted to be the one to dress her. 

“I’m surprised she has the time to make it tomorrow, she’s very busy these days.”

Thoros interrupted their conversation, cheeks rosy, wine in hand, and his voice risen above a proper level for indoors, “She’s not the only one, is she? Chairman Jon Snow!”

Jon clenched his jaw and looked thoroughly disturbed as he turned toward Thoros, “I hadn’t told anyone yet.”

Their father’s serious voice made its way down the table, “I didn’t think you were interested in that kind of work.”

“I wasn’t. I sort of got elected without my knowledge, it’s different at the wall.”

Her mother’s voice struck them next, “Indeed.”

Sansa grabbed Jon’s hand underneath the table, her mother most likely had a lot to do with Jon being so quiet about this. Robb was her crown jewel out of all her children, meant to take over their father’s role as head of the Stark family. For Jon to advance ahead of Robb in the political field was unpalatable to her. 

Arya was quick to break the moment by standing up on her chair with her glass raised high above her head, “Forget the wedding, my brother’s a freaking councilman! Here’s to all the shit I can get away with now!”

The subsequent cheers were loud enough to drown out her mother’s stoic face and their father’s worried expression. Sansa leaned into Jon’s ear, “Was it Samwell?”

“What do you think?”

Sansa smiled, Jon’s best friend had also been the one to put him up for the job of commissioner. Sam seemed convinced that Jon needed to be in leadership positions, something which she felt inclined to agree with. Like Dany, Jon had garnered a reputation for reform. He had overhauled the police force at the Wall and worked tirelessly to end discrimination and soothe cultural tensions between the freefolk and the rest of Westeros. He was known as the only person they trusted and would listen to. 

Still smiling, she traced the worn carvings notched into the table. It was made of weirwood like most of the furniture in Winterfell. The wood didn’t rot so the family was given the gift of owning such pieces, adorned with a grandeur that had been lost in time. 

Her countenance changed when she observed Sandor, turning almost as morose as her father was. He had been quiet, and where she was nursing her second helping of honeyed wine Sandor was emptying his umpteenth glass of Dornish Red. Sansa knew he was a large man and could put away a good amount of alcohol but his knuckles were white and he looked angry. Like a drunk kind of angry. 

A server reached over him with a lighter to light a blown-out candle and Sansa was sure all hell was going to break loose. Before he could react, she “accidentally” reached over and spilled some of her wine on his shirt. Sansa grabbed him by the tie, “I’m so sorry Sandor, let’s get you some seltzer water so the shirt isn’t ruined.”

Sandor merely looked at her with hazy eyes but luckily he followed her lead, albeit in a less than coordinated fashion. The journey back to the keep was an odyssey due to Sandor being very tall, very heavy, and  _ very _ drunk. 

Nonetheless, they made it to the main kitchen where they were met by Bran. “The glamour of being a maid of honor?”

Sansa struggled to keep Sandor upright, “Something like that. Can I get some seltzer, flat water, and anything to soak up the alcohol?”

Bran nodded and soon she was presented with a few bottles of water and an entire cheesecake, no doubt left over from last night. Her younger brother smirked at her, “He’s a big man Sans, means lots of booze and lots of fat to keep said booze from hitting his liver all at once.”

Sansa mouthed a quick thank you to him and quickly shoved a bottle of spring water in Sandor’s hands and ordered him to drink. He complied, though Sansa suspected he might have been fooled into thinking it was more wine from the glass bottle the water was packaged in. She then undertook the task of herding drunk Sandor into the elevator and into her apartment. 

Once inside, Sansa shrugged off her coat while Sandor took it upon himself to plop down on her kitchen floor with his back against her fridge. She placed the cheesecake next to him which he began to messily eat, while she procured salt from her cupboard and began to work on the wine that stained his shirt. “Why did you get so drunk?”

He stared at her, “Your tits look great in that dress.”

Sansa grabbed the seltzer water, “That was inappropriate, but I’m going to excuse you because you’re drunk.”

“It’s the fucking truth.”

“It’s still inappropriate, and you’re avoiding the question.” 

He slammed his head against her fridge. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hate weddings. Fucking hate fire.”

Sansa was trying to process his answer when Arya came bursting through the door with his coat in her hand. “Where the hell were you two the rest of dinner?”

Sansa had stood up in full anticipation that Arya would be furious with Sandor for getting wasted but was surprised when Arya instead directed her anger towards her. “Why are you two even together, was stealing my other two friends not enough for you?”

“Wha-”

“Gods Sansa, get your own fucking life!”

Before Sansa could get a word in Arya went back out the way she came only a few moments ago, slamming the door shut behind her. Sansa vaguely remembered asking Hot Pie for the lemon cake recipe and Lommy about how to source the fabric from the factory he worked in, but nothing that would constitute taking Arya’s friends away from her. Feeling the tears start to drop down her face, she quickly grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes to keep her makeup from running. “Don’t cry Little Bird.”

Sansa glared down at him, “I’ll cry if I want to cry. My sister just screamed at me over something I didn’t do!”

Sandor howled with drunken laughter in response. “Don’t mock me, Sandor.”

He fixed her with a stare, his glazed eyes seemingly having a moment of clarity. “You think this is bad? What I wouldn’t give to have been yelled at by my brother.”

He pointed to his burns, “Instead I got these when I was six. For playing with one of his toys. You wanted to know why I got drunk tonight Little Bird? It was for that fireplace he pressed my face against and his blushing brides that he beat to death!”

Sansa stood there with her mouth open as Sandor hung his head low. Hot tears came suddenly but they weren’t for her. All she could think to do was to get down on the floor with him and wrap her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry Sandor.”

He returned her embrace, burrowing his head in her neck as he shook violently with silent sobs. He eventually stilled and readjusted himself, swaying as he did so. Sansa was reminded he was still drunk. 

Sandor looked at her with bleary eyes. “What happened to you Little Bird? Why are you so damn sad all the time?”

“I-” 

She couldn’t answer him. She didn’t want to verbalize it for fear of it taking her back to those places in her mind. But she could show him, he would understand. She was sure of that now. She quickly scurried into her room and returned with two folders in hand. She knelt in front of Sandor, “I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it really.”

She placed her hand on one of the folders, “This was Joffrey,” she gestured towards the other one, “That was Ramsay.”

She looked away, wringing her hands together. She heard him flip through the pages and she knew what he saw, endless photos and X-rays of her broken body. She looked up to find his face twisted with anger. He abruptly stood up and punched the wall, which got him nothing given the walls in Winterfell were 20 feet of solid thick stone. “Fuck! Would it kill you to put some drywall up?”

“You’ve never met the president of the historical society in Winter town, have you?”

Cradling his fist, Sandor got down on the floor once again, this time lying completely on his back. All the commotion had finally woken Lady up and she came trotting into the kitchen. She investigated Sandor before deciding his arm would make a good pillow and laid down on him. Sandor snorted, “What a guard dog.”

“I know, she’s entirely too polite.”

“Like her owner.”

Sandor had closed his eyes but cracked one open, “This Ramsay fellow alive?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Is your brother alive?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Sansa scratched Lady behind the ears, “Do you think Jon is capable of murder?”

“Your brother?”

Sansa nodded, “I know Joffrey supposedly died from a drug overdose but don’t you think it’s a little odd that both of them are dead? Arya keeps calling me a black widow. Jon’s the only one who knows.”

Sandor shrugged, “You can never tell with the quiet ones.”

Sansa pondered his words as she pet Lady, and then realized too late that Sandor had lapsed into silence and his chest was moving in deep even breaths. She began lightly shaking him, “No, Sandor you can’t fall asleep here. You’re going to wake up sore!”

He didn’t wake, Sansa blamed the alcohol. Instead, she had to settle for trying to jam pillows under whatever part of his body she could manually lift and covering him with two warm comforters. She then had a go at cleaning up the mess the evening had made of her face, and when she got to sticking on an under-eye mask in an attempt to rejuvenate her raw red-rimmed eyes she eyed the second pack in the box.

Though she was certain she was risking Sandor killing her in the morning, she was also certain he would appreciate a little depuffing. He was almost peaceful as he slept and before she could stop herself she delicately kissed his scarred temple. “Goodnight, Sandor.” 


	4. With the Birds I'll Share

Sandor awoke in what he initially thought was a nightmare. The Imp stood above him with an amused glint in his eyes. Sandor closed his own again, willing his mind to conjure up an image more pleasant than a fucking Lannister. But when he opened his eyes again Tyrion was still there, only Sandor’s mental fog from sleep had faded and Tyrion was  _ really _ there. Sandor let out a growly breath and stretched his back before sitting up, becoming taller than the Lannister in question.

Sandor slowly registered he was on Sansa’s kitchen floor, his mouth was drier than a septa’s cunt, and the memories flooding into his mind from last night left him in no mood for cheerful banter. Least of all with Tyrion Lannister. He managed to pull his eyes away from the little man’s smug face as Sansa’s scolding tone wafted through the room. “I told you not to wake him.”

“And I didn’t, I was merely observing the Hound in his state of rest. He woke entirely by himself I assure you.”

Sansa emerged from her workroom and Sandor found himself a little disappointed that she was fully dressed. He wondered what she wore at night… Nothing perhaps? Before his mind wandered down that path Sansa was admonishing Tyrion again. “You’re not supposed to stare at people when they’re sleeping, they can sense you looking at them.”

“My apologies. When your sister mentioned that our beloved dog was here and holed up in your apartment, I had to see it with my own eyes.”

Tyrion then turned to Sandor and reached his stubby fingers towards Sandor’s face. Sandor flinched and went to swat him away but the man had already snatched back his hand, holding something in between his thumb and index finger with a triumphant smile gracing his face. “I’m afraid neither of you will ever comprehend just how delighted I am not to miss the Hound in his state of rest.”

Sandor felt around his face and extricated what looked like a sticker from underneath his other eye. “What the fuck is this?”

There was an exasperated sigh from behind the two men. “It’s an eye mask. You’re the closest thing to a best man this wedding has, we can’t have you looking puffy in the wedding photos.”

Tyrion turned his head to look up at Sansa, “My dear, you want to make the Hound look good in photos? Am I to presume you’ve suffered some injury to your sight?”

Sansa’s mouth gaped open in shock, before pinching into a frown that reminded Sandor of Catelyn Stark. At this moment he could see why quiet Lord Stark was so contented with his wife, the snobbish scornful type of anger the redheaded women seemed to possess was kind of sexy when it wasn’t directed towards you. “That was not very kind Lord Tyrion.”

Sandor decided now was a good time to interject. “At least my body will fit in the frame.”

Tyrion’s face fell slightly from his previously gleeful expression, no doubt recalling the floating head incident in his school pictures his last year before university. Working for the Lannisters for such a long time occasionally had its perks, one of which being privy to memories they’d like to forget. Things to be brought up when any of the lot got too annoying. 

“That was unkind as well, Sandor.”

Sansa’s tone was less harsh and her frown less severe, it was a halfhearted scold that feigned disapproval lest she be thought of as impolite. “Why the fuck are you here anyway, little lord?”

“My brother and I have been deemed the least offending Lannisters. What possible mischief could a dwarf and a man lacking a hand make? I think my father quite underestimates us, don’t you?”

Sandor rubbed his temple as his head began to ache. “I guess we’ll find out at the reception.”

“Lord Tyrion has anyone shown you to your room yet?”

“Yes, and I should probably leave you. I’m certain once Brienne arrives I’ll be abandoned by my brother. I should start combing through the arrivals and find some good company for this evening.”

Sansa had crossed the living room and opened the door for him. “I hear that the Umbers have arrived as well and I’m almost positive Greatjon has made his way into the wine cellar already.”

Tyrion rubbed his hands together, “Excellent recommendation.”

Sansa closed the door behind him, suddenly acting nervous. “How much do you remember from last night?”  
Sandor exhaled loudly, “All of it, never been much of a blackout drunk. We don’t have to fucking talk about it, think we pretty much said it all last night.”

She nodded and began fumbling around in the small kitchen. “There’s a breakfast buffet for all the guests in one of the great rooms downstairs but if you didn’t want to be around all the commotion this morning you can take anything from here.”

He realized he was still sitting on the floor, most likely looking very rough. He slowly stood up, cracking his back as he did so. “Probably a good idea. Gonna need to take a very long shower before I look like a fucking human again.”

Sansa seemed to stare into a wall for a long time before answering him. “Sorry, lost in thought. I do hope Arya’s in a better mood today, she’s been difficult this past week, to say the least.”

“Can imagine it’s rough on her. Isn’t this shit all about appearances? Might be tough for someone who thinks she’s ugly.”

Sansa whirled around to face him. “Why would she think something like that?”  
Sandor’s lip twitched as he wondered why exactly he was involving himself in this crap. The image of a small girl curled up in front of his television furiously rubbing her eyes popped into his mind, solidifying his decision. Arya always had a weird way of crying, almost as if she was mad at herself for shedding the tears at all. “Maybe because you and your little friend made it a point to tell her every day.”

Sansa looked at him with wide eyes, clearly taken aback. “Aye, I’ve been friends with your sister for nearly a decade. I know all about the raging bitch of a sister she had growing up. Had to deal with the drama of it all back when her and the Bull started dating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Took him six months to even get her to go out on a date. She was convinced he was too pretty and everyone would wonder why he was with her. Came to me for sympathy, not that I gave her any. She’s not ugly and definitely not deformed, not really in the same league.” 

Sansa looked down at the floor, “I wasn’t a good sister growing up. In fact, I can say with great confidence that I wasn’t a very good person until recently. It took me doing everything perfectly as I should and ending up with such horrific results to realize that everything I grew up thinking was a farce.”

“I’m not judging you Little Bird, not with the shit I’ve done in my life.”

Sandor could see it all in his mind. Arya was willful and rowdy, Sansa polite and accommodating. Arya had strong features and a lean build when she was a teen, something she had grown into when she reached adulthood. Sansa was soft round edges and delicate features, she almost looked as if she’d been painted instead of born. Even without the jeers and disapproval of her family, Sandor was certain Arya would have had issues grappling with having such a beautiful sister. It wasn’t that anyone else was particularly ugly, Sansa was just prettier than all of them. “You ever think she’s being touchy about her friends because she doesn’t want them to favor you over her like everyone else?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “ _ That  _ I can not agree with. Robb is the golden child,  _ Bran  _ is the favorite and was even before his accident. I’m just the one who does as she’s told.”

He let out a raspy laugh. “Where does Arya end up on that list?”

“She’s right after me! Then there’s Jon, and if we count Theon he’s next, and Rickon’s the last because everyone forgets about him.”

“Maybe you should clue her in on it then.”

Sansa crossed her arms, “I don’t think her wedding day is an appropriate time to discuss something like this.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know about that. There’s nothing more she likes than being right. Groveling would make a good wedding gift.”

“I’ll think about it. She always acts like I’m the stupidest person on the planet, I never thought anything I said could affect her like that.”

Sansa looked as if she might cry again, which hadn’t been his intention at all. Sandor awkwardly patted her shoulder, “It’ll be alright. It’s not like you pushed her into a fireplace or anything.”

She looked at him shocked. “Sandor, that is not something to joke about!”

He shrugged, “Had to try. You’re the only non-Clegane who knows the truth.”

“How is that even possible?”

He grimaced, though he knew it made his scars look worse. “My father covered it up. Said it was a night light that lit my bedsheets on fire.”

“Oh Sandor, that’s terrible.”

Her arms came around him and he felt warm from the inside out. Feeling uncomfortable, he coughed and did his best to change the subject. “Why is everyone here so damn early? The wedding doesn’t start for another five hours, right?”

Instead of letting him go like he thought she would, she just looked up with her chin resting on his chest and her big blue eyes staring at him. “They have to get ready for the wedding.”

“Five hours to get ready for a wedding?”

A small smile played at her lips. “You’ll see.” 

She finally let go of him, although Sandor found himself already missing the feel of her against him. “I’ll let you get to that shower, I have to go around and try to edit some of the decorations without my mother noticing. She went a little overboard. Then I have to get ready myself.”

Sandor watched her leave, her long red hair swaying along her back as she walked away from him. Once she was gone, an inspection of the fridge found the leftover cheesecake from the night prior. He scarfed that down quickly, his hangover making him feel both ravenous and nauseated at the same time. 

A shower and a reference to the itinerary directed him to the parlor that the groomsmen were getting ready in. Upon entering, he noticed that he was the last one to arrive and silently thanked Sansa for trying to let him sleep off the alcohol as much as he could. Lommy and Hot Pie were inspecting their suits, Beric and Syrio sat on a sofa chatting away, Robb was getting his hair done by someone, and Jon and Ned were leaning against a bookcase side by side. It was eerie how similar their facial expressions turned when they saw him. Thoroughly expecting to receive a stern discussion with Arya’s father, it caught him by surprise when Jon was the one to speak. “So Clegane, we heard that you spent the evening with Sansa.”

His tone was cold and threatening. In any other instance, Sandor might have gotten defensive. Decades of being associated with Gregor had left him fighting to prove he didn’t beat or rape women and it was always a tender spot for him. But from what Sansa had told him Jon was the only other one who knew about Joffrey and Ramsay, so Sandor assumed he was just being protective. And rightly so. Sandor knew if his sister had been graced with the opportunity to live past childhood he’d be the same way. Probably worse. 

Robb’s voice carried over from the other side of the room, marginally lighter than his brother’s and with a teasing lilt to it. “Arya told us Sansa was whoring herself out to one of her friends.”

The lines on Ned’s face seemed to deepen. “Robb.”

Robb laughed, “What? I’m only repeating what Arya said. Don’t mind them Sandor, if they had their way Sansa would be locked up in a tower with a group of silent sisters.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t that exciting. I got a little too drunk at dinner and passed out on her floor. I’m not an easy man to move.”

This time it was Beric who laughed. “I’m sure Arya can attest to that. They once got into a fight because she rolled him down a grassy knoll, though in her defense it was the only way she could possibly get him down the hill.”

Sandor remembered that day as well, he’d gotten mad and threw Arya down a hill herself to see how she liked it. It proved to be a bad move, however, because Arya decided it was fun and spent the rest of the day badgering him to roll her down again. 

The two broody men seemed to lighten a bit after Sandor’s explanation, but Sandor still felt uncomfortable. It wasn’t just them, but everyone. He knew Beric but the others were strangers to him. Sandor didn’t get close to people, Arya was an exception and that’s only because the little runt clawed her way into his closed-off heart. He’d be much more at ease standing by the door guarding it or walking around the estate to ensure the perimeter was secure than staying here and making small talk. 

When Robb got up, his curls perfectly buoyant and shaped, Sandor was the first to offer up his head of hair to the stylist hoping it would get him out of there sooner. “Such beautiful hair, very warrior-like.”

Sandor had to keep his eyes from rolling up at the woman. “Warrior” was always what people said when they meant he looked as if he’d been maimed in some sort of battle. His scars coupled with his build always made people assume he’d been in the military. His hair was shoulder-length, grown out that way on purpose to hide the part of his scalp that didn’t grow hair. He normally liked it acting as a curtain around his face but he’d been forced to keep it tied up because of the weather in the North. His hair would get caught in the ointment he had to put on his scars to prevent the skin there from cracking and peeling from the dryness. 

Sandor told the woman to do whatever she wanted in an effort to get this wrapped up quickly and zoned out the rest of the time. There wasn’t a mirror so he couldn’t see what she was doing anyway. When she was finished Sandor made to go put on his suit but Robb stopped him. The younger man shouted out into the room, “Have we got the time?” 

Jon was the one who responded, “We’ve got a little less than two hours until the ceremony starts.”

Ned furrowed his brow, “I should go find Robert, he abducted Gendry over an hour ago.”

Robb turned to him, “Put it on at your own risk and make sure not to sit down. If you wrinkle it Sansa will go at you with her steamer. I swear she brandishes that thing like a weapon.”

“Note taken.”

Sandor snatched the garment bag he had brought with him that contained his tux and went inside the adjacent room, which was being used as a changing room. As he was putting on the tux something from inside the jacket fell to the ground. It was a piece of paper folded into itself three times. Sandor unfolded it. 

_ “Hi Sandor, I let the suit out a little bit just in case you were bloated from last night. If it’s too loose come find me later :)” _

He finished putting on the tuxedo. It was a dark near-black navy blue tux, complete with a white dress shirt and a light blue bow tie that looked like it matched the blue dress he had seen in Sansa’s studio. Sandor thought to himself that there were few people in the world he would wear a bow tie for. Yet he found himself smiling as he exited the room, before a flash of light and a shutter sound interrupted him. 

Looking at the source of the noise, he saw a tall young man with an impish grin and a camera in hand. “Can I fucking help you?”  
The boy extended his hand, “Sorry if I startled you. I’m Jojen the wedding photographer. Well, I’m not actually a wedding photographer. I photograph Bran’s food, but his mother likes my work and she’s not one to be refused.”

“I don’t care, keep your camera to yourself boy.”

Sandor walked away in a huff. He’d forgotten about another reason he hated weddings. The photos. He found a deserted corridor that seemed like a safe place to hide from the other guests wandering around and pulled out his phone, texting Podrick asking him if everything was going well at home and then pulling up a solitaire app. 

He was on his 8th game when he heard a rustling noise approaching quickly. Arya quickly rounded the corner and darted behind one of the heavy curtains hung up in front of a window across from him. A few seconds later, a spindly girl with brown hair came huffing down the hall. She stopped when she neared him as if she was going to ask him a question but she took one look at his face, winced, and scampered away. 

Arya emerged a few moments later. “Thank the gods you were here with your face. That was Jeyne the Bitch.”

“I’ll have to be scarier when I see her again. She giving you a hard time?”

“She’s only neighed at me once today so it hasn’t been too bad. Sansa told her to stop which was weird, they’re usually worse when they’re together.”

Sandor put his phone away. “Maybe things changed since you saw them last. What is that shit in your hair?”

She tugged at the tubes that coated her head, “They’ve tried to curl my hair three times using all different techniques. But it falls flat every time, you know why? Because my hair is straight and it wants to stay that way!”

She yanked at them more violently and whined at him. “Don’t just stand there, help me! They’re pinching my scalp.”

He started fiddling with her hair, trying to unravel the tubes from her head. “Apparently your entire family thinks I screwed your sister last night thanks to you.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Not really. Everyone knows Sansa’s a stuck up little prude. Why were you up there with her in the first place?”  
“Drunk. Weddings aren’t my thing. Another thing that Gregor ruined.”

Arya was quiet for a moment. Sandor knew that she suspected he was the one who had hurt him. She’d met his brother shortly before his death and made no secret of her hatred of him. Arya had never asked him outright though, something he was grateful for. “Sorry, this isn’t my idea of a good time either. If it was up to me it would just be you guys camped out in the Isle of Faces with some good beer.”

Sandor had managed to untangle the last plastic tube and Arya’s hair fell down, completely and stubbornly flat. “I know that girl.”

She turned around to face him, “How much time do I have?”

Sandor looked at his phone, “One hour.”

Arya let out a long sigh and gave him a look like she was marching to her death. “I should get back.”

She kicked one of the tubes towards him, “Can you hide these for me?”

He nodded as she went back the way she came, dragging her feet as she did. Sandor found a nearby closet and decided that it was a good place as any to dump the bright pink torture contraptions Arya had tasked him with getting rid of. He then slowly meandered through the castle until he reached the entrance from which they’d all be leaving for the godswood, scowling at everyone he came into contact with so they’d leave him alone. 

Sansa was the first one he saw of the bridal party. She popped in from the entrance, cheeks rosy from the cold and wearing a soft grey coat over her bridesmaid dress. “Hi Sandor, I was just showing some of the guests the way to the godswood. Is anyone else here?”

Just as he went to shake his head no, a cacophony of shrieks and laughter headed their way. The gaggle of women was headed by Catelyn Stark and in the center, Arya was being hoisted forward in her white poofy dress. Sandor turned to Sansa, “I thought-”

Sansa put her finger to her mouth, “Shh.”

Ned Stark and the groomsmen came up from the rear, probably responding to the women using some sort of echolocation. Catelyn wasted no time in pairing up everyone as most of the bridal party had never met. Daenerys Targaryen was easy to pick out due to her coloring, Beric was trying to politely shrug off the ironclad grip the Jeyne bitch had his arm in, and Syrio looked like he was getting scolded by the young Lyanna Mormont. 

They were all set to leave for the godswood when Sandor heard Sansa’s voice rise above all the rest. “Oh Arya, you have a rip in your dress!”

Catelyn Stark whipped her head around so fast Sandor was surprised it still sat on her shoulders. “What!”

“It’s just a small tear but it makes the back look uneven, I can fix it in just a few minutes. You all should head to the godswood first.”

Arya rubbed her temples, “Are you kidding me?”

Catelyn snapped her fingers, “Go with your sister. Make it quick girls!”

Sandor decided to stick with his aisle mate and followed Sansa and Arya into a room where he guessed by the amount of makeup and hair products they had gotten ready. Sansa pushed Arya into what must have been a changing room, “Take the dress off and give it here.”

They heard grumbling from the other side of the door but it opened and Sansa snatched the copious amount of fabric and quickly discarded it on the floor. She gave him a mischievous look, “I purposefully altered it to be too big so it would be easy to remove.”

He laughed, “A true tactician.”

Sansa smiled, “Okay, now open the garment bag hanging up.”

There was silence on the other end, a zip, and then a whole cluster of curses. Sansa looked at him, “Good or bad?”

“Confusion.”

Arya burst from the room, “What the fuck is this?”  
Sansa stepped behind her and began buttoning Arya into the dress. “It’s a dress I made for you. Do you like it?”

Arya’s eyes filled with uncertainty as she looked at him, “I don’t know, I guess. Does it look nice?”

“You clean up well she-wolf.”

Sansa had busied herself with taking down her sister’s hair from the rat’s nest it had been put up in and pinned it back behind her ears with two silver pins. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

At Arya’s question, Sandor slowly creeped out of the room, sensing a conversation he didn’t think he should be witnessing. Not that it mattered, because a few moments later Sandor learned that the Stark sisters were  _ not _ quiet when they fought. He heard Sansa’s softer tone float through the door first, “Is it so suspicious that I want to do something nice for my little sister?”

“You haven’t ever before!”

“That was before!”

“Exactly! You show up here years later acting like we’re all chummy and the best of friends! And what is this dress for? When have you ever cared about what I want? I’ve always been wrong in your eyes!”

“That’s because I didn’t know any better!”

Sansa’s voice became a murmur again, “There’s nothing wrong with you Arya. I want to be a good big sister to you and I’m sorry. I made the dress because I thought you should wear something as beautiful and unique as you are when you marry Gendry.”

Sandor started when he heard the door suddenly open and Arya crossed through the threshold. Sansa followed behind her. “Fine... Thank you.”

The sisters slowly hugged as if for the first time, which it may very well have been. “Hate to interrupt you two, but we’d better be going.”

Arya stepped in front of him, hands on her hips and feet set in a wide stance, now made possible with her less restricting dress. “I was going to let this go to prank you but since I’m in a better mood, have you seen your hair?”

His hair? “No.”

Sansa frowned, “What’s wrong with his hair? It’s very becoming.”

Oh no. He walked over to the nearest mirror and died a little on the inside. It seems the hairstylist took her “warrior” inspiration to heart because she braided a large section of hair on either side of his head and placed what looked like little silver noserings in the braids. “I have fucking jewelry in my hair.”

Arya snorted, “You look like one of those guys in that Viking show.”

Sandor glared at her while Sansa seemed like she was pouting. “I think it looks very fashionable and look how it shows off his bone structure!”

Sandor shook his head and scowled at Arya, “There’s no time to fix it. Everyone else is freezing their cocks off because  _ someone _ couldn’t have this thing in the summer.”

When the trio exited the castle, they were met with Ned who had stayed behind with one of the carts. His eyes widened when he saw the new and improved dress. “Arya, you look beautiful. Just like your aunt Lyanna.”

Arya blushed, “Whatever. Sansa is the one who made it.”

The older man inspected it closer, “It suits you very well. The other one was…”

“Frilly?” Sandor supplied.

“Like a stupid fluffy poodle dress?” Arya offered.

“Not very characteristic of Arya?” Sansa said, forever polite. 

Ned looked at each one of them. “Yes.”

Arya took the seat next to her father who was driving so Sandor and Sansa took the back. Sansa clasped her hands in his and when he shot her a questioning look she told him it was cold. He thought he might have seen her father glare at him in the rearview mirror. 

They pulled up to the entrance to the godswood, where the rest of the bridal party was waiting for them. Robb and Jon grinned the widest when they saw Arya. “Thank the gods you didn’t have to wear that cupcake dress!” Robb howled. 

Everyone quickly got into their pairs, Sansa shrugged her coat off and took his arm. “Ready?”

He nodded and pulled out a handkerchief, “You going to need this?”

She smiled at him and tucked it discreetly into her dress, “Yes, thank you.”

They made their way past the trees the bridal party was hiding behind and entered the space where they had rehearsed last night. Packs of people stood on either side of the aisle to the heart tree, which was lined in what looked like baby’s breath. Though Sandor knew fuck all about flowers. Gendry stood at the heart tree beside a tall man with black hair and sharp features, who Sandor guessed was their uncle who was officiating. 

At their arrival, a harp started to play and Sandor spied Arya’s friend Tom off to the side of the heart tree plucking at the strings before his smooth voice filled the godswood. They began to walk slowly, Sandor letting Sansa determine the pace. 

_ “My featherbed is deep and soft, _

_ And there I’ll lay you down, _

_ I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, _

_ And on your head a crown,” _

They parted at the heart tree and stood at opposite sides. Robb and Talisa made their way down the aisle next. 

_ “For you shall be my lady love, _

_ And I shall be your lord.” _

Then Jon and Daenerys. 

_ “I’ll always keep you safe and warm, _

_ And guard you with my sword,” _

Beric and Jeyne.

_ “How she smiled and how she laughed,” _

Lommy and Alys.

_ “The maiden of the tree.” _

Hot Pie and Wylla.

_ “She spun away and said to him,” _

And finally Syrio and Lyanna.

_ “No feather bed for me.” _

Arya and her father made their entrance next. Sandor observed Gendry nearly cry as he looked at Arya with a disgusting amount of love. Catelyn’s face initially soured at the sight of the dress but soon her chin was wobbling along with a few others in the crowd. 

_ “I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,  _

_ And bind my hair with grass,  _

_ But you can be my forest love,  _

_ And me your forest lass.” _

The song and the music ended as Arya and her father reached the heart tree. Their uncle cleared his throat. “Who comes before the gods?”

“Arya Stark.”

Their uncle spoke again, “Who claims her?”

“Gendry Baratheon.”

“And who gives her?”

“Her father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

Arya stepped over to Gendry and they shared a chaste kiss, receiving hollers and whistles from the guests. They both kneeled before the heart tree and people began to slowly make their way back to the castle. It was short like Sansa had promised yesterday but still profound, though at times between the vows and the backdrop of Winterfell he felt like he was in medieval Westeros. 

The bride and groom were quickly consumed by family members. Sansa emerged from the cluster of people and grabbed his arm with one hand, the other was wiping away her tears. When she spoke it was with a trembling voice, “Love is the most beautiful view isn’t it?”

He looked down at the crimson hair spilling over her shoulders, “Yes. It is.”


	5. With the Birds I'll Share This Lonely Viewin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, back from the dead! Sorry for the long wait, I've had some health issues and haven't had the energy to work on this. Thank you for your patience!

The reception took place in the Great Hall. Long weirwood tables sat on either side of the hall with Arya and Gendry seated on the dais, flanked by their parents and Robert Baratheon. They were only halfway through the meal but when Sansa glanced at them she could see Gendry’s long-suffering face as the father who had been absent during the majority of his life shouted drunkenly over him to her father. 

Sansa had always sympathized with Robert in a way. He’d been the most innocuous and enjoyable member of the Lannister-Baratheon household when she had been dating Joffrey. He was a sad man who had only ever loved one girl and she had died another man’s wife. Perhaps it was her own misfortune in love that related to him so closely. And though she was certain he annoyed Gendry to no end, Sansa loved it when he came to Winterfell because no one could make her father smile as Robert did. 

She and Sandor were placed at the table right below the dais with the rest of the bridal party. Jeyne had taken it upon herself to sit beside her and Sansa really wished she hadn’t and that Jon was sitting next to her instead. Her childhood best friend kept gawking at Sandor’s face and it was making Sansa feel defensive on his behalf. Sandor was also not helping things because he seemed to be glaring at her every time he had the chance. Luckily, Jeyne seemed quite enamored with Beric and kept flirting with him, limiting their interaction with her. 

A thunderous laugh from Robert had both Sansa and Sandor looking over at him. When they shifted their attention away from the father of the groom Sansa locked eyes with him for a moment before she looked down, fidgeting with the napkin in her lap. Her heart quickened and Sansa silently thanked the gods for makeup because otherwise, she was sure her face would be splashed with a tomato-esque hue. 

Sandor had beautiful eyes. They were currently framed by his annoyed face but they were still just as beautiful and Sansa was sure she could stare at them for hours if she didn’t stop herself. She wasn’t a stranger to the rarity of grey eyes seeing as a good chunk of the Starks were stone-eyed, but her family skewed darker with Jon bringing up the rear with a near-black ash color. Sandor’s eyes, however, were pools of molten glimmering silver that she melted into whenever he looked at her. 

Which is why Sansa had resorted to strangling her napkin. Because if he kept looking at her Sansa would have a very hard time resisting the urge to touch him in inappropriate ways. They would be soft and delicate embraces because she was still a lady even if she wanted to climb Sandor like a tree, but they would be inappropriate all the same. 

Sansa cleared her throat, “Not a big fan of Bobby B?”

Sandor shrugged, “My opinion doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Of course it does, I asked you.”

Sandor straightened out his shoulders, “Too used to being a damn bodyguard for these people. To answer your question Little Bird, I don’t really waste my time thinking of the bastard. I just feel bad for the kid. The only reason he’s here is for your father, we all know that. Man’s a shitty husband and father.”

Sansa nodded and leaned towards Sandor, “True, but don’t you think his life is sort of tragic?”

Sandor rolled his eyes and huffed out an indignant breath. Sansa couldn’t help herself and shuddered at the feeling of the warm air tinged with the scent of dornish sour swirling across her face. Luckily, Sandor seemed too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the embarrassing display. “Tragic? I’ve seen tragic and yet I’ve never laid my hands on a woman and I don’t have children milling about the country who I’ve never even spoken to. I get through it like any normal person would, by becoming an alcoholic. Or did, anyway.”

Sansa pushed her food around her plate as a wistful smile budded on her face. “I suppose you’re right. I’m forever romanticizing everything, it’s always been a problem of mine.” 

Their musings were cut short by her mother announcing that it was time to cut the cake. Sansa watched nervously as everyone gathered around the tall white creation that had been masterfully decorated with beautiful piping. Even the memory of their mother threatening the life of a renowned pastry chef when he dared utter the word fondant wasn’t enough to distract Sansa from the inevitable. 

The hours had been countless. She had handsewn every stitch in that dress. She had softened the leather herself and at one point in a moment of sleep-deprived insanity, considered buying and raising her own silkworms for the inside lining of the bodice. And Arya was about to ruin it all. 

A pained expression crossed her face as the first fistful of cake slammed into the side of Arya’s neck, followed by Arya uppercutting a glob of frosting onto Gendry’s chin. The two were shouting and laughing playfully at each other as Sansa died on the inside. On the other side of the couple was her mother, with an equally pained countenance. 

Sansa peeked up at Sandor and instantly felt the rest of the room fuzz away at the edges. His brow was relaxed, his eyes flickering in amusement and affection, and instead of twitching his upper lip as he was wont to do, he had let a smile slip across his face. It mangled his scars which Sansa guessed was the reason he stopped himself from ever smiling, but his genuine happiness made him all the more handsome in her eyes. 

He looked down at her, “Probably the only part of this thing they’ve enjoyed.” 

She gazed back up at him and nodded, almost fearful of breaking his moment of contentment. It would only last for a moment however because as soon as the socially sanctioned food fight was over Sansa could not restrain herself any longer. It took a moment before she was able to corral Arya into a corner of the room. Their mother was wiping off Arya’s face and picking at the frosting in her hair while Sansa focused on gently dabbing the cake away from the skirt of the dress. “Thank the gods I thought to make the bodice out of leather.”

Arya snickered above her. “You have no idea how long this dress took me to make Arya Stark. Do not laugh at me.” 

“You could always use a machine Sansa, not my fault you’re a neurotic mess who gives herself carpal tunnel hand-stitching everything.”

Sansa looked up from the dress long enough to glare at her for a moment before returning to her task. “I do use sewing machines but it  _ means more _ when it’s handsewn. And I only gave myself carpal tunnel the one time!”

“Yes,” the stern voice of her mother floated out, “A lot of care must have been taken. Not even I knew that the dress that was originally designed for your sister was not the one that she would be wearing.”

Sansa avoided her mother’s searing eyes. “She didn’t like that one.”

She straightened up as she finished cleaning Arya’s dress and promptly bumped into Sandor, who had come up behind her. Sandor grabbed her shoulders as she stabilized herself before dropping them, his fingers cascading gently down her arms as he let her go. She looked to him but Sandor’s gaze was directed toward her mother, his face pulled in such a way that made his scars look worse than they were. 

It was enough to send her mother politely flitting away and provided Arya with an escape back to Gendry. “Thank you,” Sansa softly mouthed to him. 

Sandor ignored her thanks, instead delicately picking at one of her hands and turning it over and back again. “Carpal tunnel, huh?”

She could feel herself flush at the realization that Sandor had overheard that part of the conversation. But it was no matter, she wasn’t ashamed. In fact, that project was her most accomplished work and she couldn’t help but smile widely remembering it. “It was the most glorious thing, Sandor. The Velaryon family commissioned me to make a replica of the greatcloak Alyssa Velaryon wore for the Golden Wedding. Light lavender wool, a seahorse embroidered in pale blue thread, a dragon stitched in purple crimson, a shower of moonstone and fire opal engulfing them, it weighed more than I did when I was done with it…”

Sandor yanked her to his side, “Back to the world of the living, little bird.”

Snapping out of her reverie, Sansa realized she had been unconsciously wandering towards the dance floor, where the first dances were currently taking place. “Sorry, I get lost in it sometimes,” she laughed to herself. 

“Nothing wrong with being passionate about something.”

Sansa smiled at his words. “What about you Sandor? I know you used to work for the Lannisters and fight but what do you do now?’

“Leg injury took me out of the cage a few years back. I have a horse ranch up in the Quiet Isle.”

“Horses? Arya must be in heaven whenever she visits you. She loves horses.” 

Sandor nodded, watching Arya and their father dance in view of the guests. Sansa joined him, but when Arya and their father swayed near a certain guest Sansa had been avoiding she couldn’t help but start to panic. She instinctively grabbed Sandor’s arm, clutching tightly to the fabric of his suit jacket. “What’s wrong Sansa?”

“Do you see that older man? The one with the dead fish eyes? That’s Ramsay’s father.”

“Your brother forget to kill that one?”

Sansa relaxed a bit at Sandor’s jest. “No. Roose never did anything, he just scares me.”

Sandor leaned into her until his lips were just an inch away from her ear. “Don’t fret, we’ll keep the fucking corpse away from you.”

Sansa loosened her grip on his arm to an appreciative squeeze before leading him towards the dance floor. He scowled at her, “I don’t dance.”

Sansa ignored his stern voice and continued to tug at his arm. She smiled at him playfully, “It’s fine, you can let me lead.”

His eyes darted over to where Roose Bolton was seated before willingly trudging behind her. If Sansa hadn’t already been internally swooning over the man that would have surely done it. His protectiveness was intoxicating, making her feel as if she was something precious he wanted to guard. No man outside of her family had ever treated her as such. She’d always been cast aside to some corner and collected when they had use for her, with no real thought or care as to if she was okay. 

The song was slow so Sansa held his hands in her own and began to softly sway. Sandor followed her movements, but his body was tense and his eyes serious. “Anyone else we’re avoiding?”

Sansa peeked around his arm and looked about the room as she compiled a list in her head. “In order of most disgusting, Petyr is definitely at the top. I lived with him and my aunt Lysa for a while but he used to have a thing for my mother and I left when he kissed me. You won’t miss him, his goatee speaks for itself.” 

Sandor’s hands tightened and Sansa drew closer to him as she went on. “Walder Frey, you think he’d get less creepy in his old age. Any man close to my age that my mother might try to get me to marry. And Loras Tyrell, because I spent years fawning over him while not realizing he was gay.” 

Sandor was quiet despite her attempt at a joke in the last part. “Your family doesn’t know about that either I take it?”

Sansa suddenly felt small. “Don’t judge me for this, or the others. You worked for the Lannisters for years, you know how these things go. Tywin, Roose, Petyr… They could all cause my family a lot of trouble. And my father isn’t one to let things like this go. They can do whatever they want because they have the money and the influence to do it.” 

Sandor pulled her closer until her head rested against his chest. “Aye, that they do. But your family isn’t exactly rotting in the poorhouse unable to defend themselves.” 

“I know, but father’s always been more focused on building strong and safe communities. I didn’t grow up knowing that evil businessmen and politicians existed outside of the movies.”

Sansa felt the laughter rumble in his chest before bubbling up as a heavy chuckle. “You Starks are a good lot, more honest than most.”

“You haven’t really seen anything then. I’ve only been in Winterfell for a short while, before I was living with Jon at the Wall. The Free Folk are very blunt, you’d fit right in.”

The slowed down even more, barely moving in a small deliberate circle despite the upbeat pop music that was now playing. Sandor bent down, the uneven surface of his scars grazing her cheek, “Is that your polite way of saying I’m a rude fucker?”

Sansa shivered despite herself as he cursed in her ear and stopped moving completely. Before she could respond, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was her father, a grim smile set upon his face. “May I steal you away?”

It wasn’t a question. She let her father lead her away, waving a small farewell to Sandor who looked amused at her father’s demeanor. _ Of course, it’s funny to him, he knows he’s no threat to me.  _ Her father obviously did not get the memo, because as soon as he had her in his arms he twirled her away to the very opposite end of the room and fixed her with a serious stare. “Is he bothering you, Sansa?”

She shook her head, “No.”

Her father closed his eyes and sighed, “You can be too accommodating. That man is no company for a young lady such as yourself to keep.”

“But for Arya it’s okay?”

Her father glanced over to Arya, who was trying to get an unwilling Sandor to do a dance lift. Over and over she charged at him, more reminiscent of a bug splatting against a windshield than a bird taking flight. 

“Arya has made her choices and made it clear she’ll not heed our advice. You are different.”

“You mean I’m weaker.”

Sansa stepped away from her father and managed to capture Jon just as Barbrey Dustin was leaving him. He didn’t say anything at first. “Did you know Lady Dustin is handsy? I thought I’d be safe with her seeing as she scowls at everyone all the time.”

Sansa’s eyes furrowed together sympathetically, “Oh, Jon.”

“Not the first time tonight, either. I think Old Walder’s going blind, he patted my butt at the chocolate fountain line.”

Sansa had to stifle a laugh, “Oh, no.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, “What’s going on between you and dad?”

“He thinks I’m some infirm little flower. He’s not wrong but I hate to be reminded of it.”

She felt Jon’s chin rest against her head. “Anyone can find themselves in a bad relationship, not everyone has the guts to leave. Look at Cersei, Robert sleeps his way up and down the country and hits her when she challenges him. Yet she stays.”

Sansa put her arms around her brother, “It’s not like I left by myself. You had to bail me out twice.”

“Because that’s what brothers do.”

“Okay.”

Sansa tried to enjoy the rest of the night in spite of herself and the thoughts of the past that were biting at the edge of her mind. She danced until her feet couldn’t take it anymore and tried not to attract attention by favoring Sandor. But she did let him walk her to her quarters at the end of the night. 

They were walking arm in arm from the hall back to the keep with the other drunken and tired guests. “How did you enjoy the wedding, was it better than the other ones? I noticed you didn’t get drunk like at the rehearsal.”

Sandor let out a long sigh, his breath swirling like smoke in the cold night air. “It was good. The wolf bitch and the bull seem happy at least.”

Sansa smiled, “They’re almost like a fairytale.” 

Sandor snorted, “I’m sure your sister would love to hear that. Are they doing the honeymoon bit?”

“Yes, they’re backpacking through Norvos for an undisclosed amount of time. They’ll be leaving tomorrow at dawn, just in time to avoid saying goodbye to all the guests. Mother doesn’t know that she’s skipping out so it should prove to be an eventful morning. I’m thinking of making an excuse to go into Winter town, you can tag along if you’d like.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched, “I’ll have to skip that, little bird. I have to pack.”

Sansa reddened, “Of course, I’m sorry! What time are you leaving?”

“My flight’s in the afternoon.”

They had arrived at the foyer of the keep, where they technically were supposed to part ways. “Sandor, can you grab your things and come back here?” 

He gave her a confused look and it occurred to Sansa that her phrasing had not sounded entirely wholesome. “Why?”

“It’s a surprise.”

One lumbering trip up to his room and a bribe for an exhausted housekeeper later, and Sansa was tugging Sandor down a hallway across from where his room was. She opened the heavy wooden door with an excited smile plastered on her face. 

Sandor circled the room, an unimpressed look on his face. He draped his jacket on a chair, reminding Sansa of the jacket she’d never returned to him. Though he’d never asked for it back and he was leaving her forever tomorrow so she figured it was fair to keep it. “So… A room… Exactly like the other room?”

Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “Not  _ exactly. _ Get on the bed.”

Sandor whirled around to face her with an alarmed expression, “ _ What?” _

She could feel her cheeks starting to burn. “Get your mind out of the gutter, I am a lady!”

Although the thought of ordering Sandor around in the bedroom wasn’t a purely unwelcome one, Sansa demurely motioned towards the bed. “It’s a double king.”

Sandor nodded, looking slightly relieved. “Is this what I get for getting back into the good graces of the hostess?”

“Something like that.”

Sandor took off his shoes, collapsing on the bed with his arms behind his head. As she eyed the muscles bulging against the fabric of his shirt, Sansa began to think having him try out the bed right in front of her might not have been the best idea. It was too tempting,  _ he _ was too tempting. And the temptation was leaving tomorrow morning to go back to his life wherever the Quiet Isle was. Sansa slowly walked backward, bidding him goodnight and booking it out the door and back her own apartment before he could say anything in reply. 

***

The next morning, Sansa woke up at an ungodly hour with a plan to stay in Winter Town until Sandor left. It was childish but Sansa didn’t want to watch Sandor and his big hands leave Winterfell, never to be heard from again. 

She thought she had reached peak petulance when she spent three hours at a bakery eating almost an entire pigeon pie. But the true crescendo of her adult tantrum came when she angrily bought nearly twenty pounds of embroidery thread. The burnt yellow had been for him never asking for her number, navy blue for him and Arya being adorable together, eggshell for his impossibly deep voice, and so on… 

The pouting started when she attempted to heave all twenty pounds of embroidery thread from her car, through the snow, and into the keep.  _ If only Sandor were here with his stupid strong arms. _

No sooner did she have the thought than a pair of large hands swatted hers away. She looked up wide-eyed at Sandor. “I thought your flight was this afternoon?”

“It was canceled, the Vale was snowed in last night. No one in or out today.” 

“Oh.”

That was a reasonable explanation.  _ What did you think, Sansa? That he was going to tell you that he had inexplicably fallen in love with you and couldn’t bear to leave you? Stupid Sansa. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  _

“Trying to avoid me?”

“No! Just… Trying to avoid whatever fallout there was from Arya leaving. Did you see anything?”

Sandor stared her down and Sansa hoped he bought what she was saying. She was a terrible liar but there was some honesty mixed in there. Sansa was trying to avoid him but she didn’t  _ want _ to avoid him. 

If he sensed any dishonesty he didn’t remark on it. “Just your mother looking like she was practicing how to telepathically blow someone’s head up. Doubt she’d show much to guests. And I’m still a guest, unpleasant as I am.”

“You’re not unpleasant.”

Sandor started snickering so Sansa pushed past him and entered the keep, where her mother was waiting for her. “I thought I saw your car pull up, you’re just in time for dinner. Sandor, will you be joining us?”

Sandor set her thread down on a nearby table and jammed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to be a bother, I saw an inn on our way into town-”

Sansa was about to protest herself because there was no way she was letting Sandor near the Smoking Log Inn & Alehouse or its busty bartender, but her mother did it for her. “Absolutely not. Unlike Arya would have her guests believe, we do not abandon or throw out our guests when we are done with them.” 

Sansa breathed a long sigh of relief as they made their way into the dining room. It was her and Sandor, her parents, Robb and Talisa, Jon, Bran, and Rickon. Everyone else had made their way home throughout the day. 

Her appetite was thin so she picked at her plate, it was unfortunately noticed by her family. Her father frowned at her, “Sansa, stop moving your food about the plate. Eat it properly or don’t eat at all.”

He had on his stern “Lord Eddard Stark” voice that he used to use whenever he tried to get her to eat her vegetables when she was younger. Sansa could have died from embarrassment. She wondered if he still saw her as a little girl, wondered if he’d be hurt to find out what Joffrey and Ramsay did to her. Then she wondered what he’d think if he knew the thoughts she’d been having about the scarred man sitting beside her. 

“They were having a sale on pigeon pie at Old Nan’s today. I ate my fill so I’m not very hungry.”

Sansa laughed at the look of disgust Sandor was shooting her. “Don’t knock it until you try it, it’s a northern delicacy. If the snow hasn’t let up tomorrow, I’ll take you there to try it.”

Rickon scraped his knife against his plate, “You staying long then?”

Their father clenched his jaw, “Rickon.”

“What? I’m seeing just how much more rights a guest has in this home than I do before my dutiful brother Jon  _ escorts _ me back into exile.”

Their mother narrowed her eyes at her youngest child, “He’ll stay until he can safely travel home, as is proper etiquette.”

Thankfully, Robb saw it fit to jump into the conversation and change the subject. “So Sandor, I saw a few clips of your fights. Good stuff.”

Sandor crossed his arms across his chest, “Thanks.”

“Don’t you think Sa?”

Sansa cringed and decided at that very moment it was time to move away from her family. Robb had been inspired by the trend of calling pizza, “Za” and had decided to do the same thing with her name, insistently, though it never stuck.

“No, I haven’t seen any of his fights. I think it’s barbaric.”

Sansa could feel Sandor’s eyes on her but she refused to look his way. She had no desire to see Sandor hurt and bleeding. She’d probably start crying and that would be utterly mortifying. 

“Too bad,  _ Sa _ , you’re missing out. You’re retired now, right Sandor? What are you up to these days?”

“He has a horse ranch,” Sansa piped up. 

The lines on her father’s face seemed to soften, “That’s why you and Arya must be such good friends.”

Her poor father. He must think he’s found the answer of Sandor and Arya’s friendship, if only he knew how they  _ really  _ met. Her mother looked intrigued as well, “Do you breed horses, Sandor? Willas Tyrell and Oberyn Martell do as well, perhaps you were able to speak to them at the wedding?”

Sandor shifted in his seat, “No, I rehabilitate neglected horses and rehome them.”

Sansa felt her whole body start to buzz and hum, “Like a horse rescue? That’s amazing!”

Were the gods trying to torment her? Had Sandor done everything in his life just to make him into the perfect man? He was already kind, honest, handsome, protective, and adorably grumpy, now he ran an animal rescue? She thought back to the box of embroidery sitting in the foyer. There was a light pink blush bundle of thread nestled in the middle. That one was for her and Sandor because she was sure she was already falling in love with him. 

***

Unfortunately, the snow did not hold up. She did not get to make Sandor fall in love with her over pigeon pie the next day. She did end up watching Sandor and his big hands leave Winterfell. 

It would be a few weeks later when Sansa got an email from her manager about an upcoming project to design the costumes for a film about Florian and Jonquil. Sansa’s inner child accepted without hesitation and she immediately began to flip through a travel book of Westeros, where she kept a note of all of the attractions to see whenever she traveled for work. 

When she came to her next destination she stopped dead in her tracks. She put the book down and walked over to her desk, thumbing the stolen jacket and pink thread that had been sitting there for nearly a month. 

Smiling, Sansa grabbed her phone and called a number she’d saved but never dared called or messaged. She’d been right, the pink really was their color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb, stop trying to make Sa happen! It's not going to happen!


	6. A Southern Girl With a Scarlet Drawl

Sandor fidgeted nervously with his keys. The arrivals terminal was full of exhausted people waiting for their equally exhausted incomers. It was still winter and the snow was continuing to wreak havoc on the small airport in the Vale. As if they didn’t already have to deal with the short pitiful excuse of a thing they called a runway, they now had to deal with all the snow. Delays were now the norm, and the little bird’s flight was no exception. 

He fingered his keys again, weaving them in and out of the spaces between his hands. He didn’t want to see her again. It was torture enough to have to live with the memory of her soft form swaying in his arms all night, her eyes holding a secret he had only told one other person, her lips parting and closing as she walked him to a car that would take him far, far away. 

She’d wanted him to kiss her, he could tell. And damn all the gods to the Seven hells he wanted to kiss her too. A few years ago he might have done it, take everything from her before the inevitable crash. She’d be just another name on his list, another face that came to mind when he was beating someone within an inch of their life. 

But the Hound was dead and Sandor couldn’t count the reasons not to kiss the older Stark girl. He was too old and too rude, for a start. Lowborn. He’d never been in a relationship in his life and Sansa fucking Stark wasn’t a starter girlfriend. It would lead to nothing but ruin and she deserved much more than that. 

So he watched her out of the corner of his eye as the car drove away from Winterfell, her hands behind her back and a somberly wistful in her eyes as she gazed up at the sky. He didn’t even ask for her number, he’d be too tempted to call her. Just to hear that sweet voice again. 

His plan of avoidance didn’t work out, it was just shy of a month since he’d seen her last when that sweet voice rang through his phone and into his ear. She’d told him about how she’d be relocating to Maidenpool for a job and wondered if she could stay with him and check out the area. Of course, he said yes because she chirped so sweetly at him and he was beginning to think he’d never be able to deny her much. 

He didn’t want to see her again. He didn’t want to see her. He was sure. Yet when she came stumbling sleepily through the arrivals gate with her hair askew in a messy bun and leaning tiredly against her luggage cart he’d never seen a more welcome sight. Her eyes glazed over him lazily before widening, and then she was furiously shuffling towards him. Her lips were puckered in a frowny pout. “I told you I would take a car service, it’s nearly a six-hour drive for you roundtrip!” she angrily whispered. 

Sandor scoffed, “And let your kidnapping and murder hang over my head? Bugger that. Besides, whatever twit you’d be stuck with would probably get lost, the Isle’s fair secluded.”

He snatched the luggage cart from her and headed to the exit. Her quick steps sounded behind him. “Wait up Sandor, not everyone has long legs like you.”

Sansa had ended it with a girlish giggle. Eager to ignore the flirtatious undertone to her voice, Sandor summoned his raspiest growl, “Sorry, used to your sister insisting on having me roll her around on anything with wheels and beg me to run into people on purpose.”

Sansa laughed and latched onto his arm, clearly unmoved to cease being lovely even when the topic of her sister was brought up. “She used to do that all the time with shopping carts. She still has the scar from when she split her lip when one tipped over and deposited her face-first on the floor.”

Sandor snorted, “Sounds like her.” 

He tried to ignore the pressure of her arm wrapped around his as she tightened her hold. “Thank you, Sandor. It’s so nice of you to offer your home and to show me around. I just know I’ll find the perfect place to live while I’m designing the costumes for this film.”

He could feel her eyes looking up at him but he refused to meet her eye, only giving her a pacifying grunt in response and fixating on the fastest route to where his truck was parked. When they reached it he expertly disengaged his arm from Sansa’s and went to stow her luggage in the back, motioning with his head for her to climb into the front seat. 

She obliged and once she was sequestered in front he heaved all her luggage into the back with a frustrated huff. Closing the cover over the bed of the truck, Sandor scanned the parking lot as if to look for some excuse not to get into the vehicle. In his mind, he cursed the little wolf bitch for making him quit smoking. Locking eyes with Sansa in the review mirror, he cursed the little bird as well for being so captivating. 

After making eye contact with her, Sandor  _ had _ to get inside. It was ridiculous, and he couldn’t help but grip the steering wheel in annoyance at himself. He was the one who insisted on picking her up. Yes, it had occurred to him that meant a three-hour drive with a woman who wanted him but who he had resolved not to be an ass to or pound into a mattress. Maybe it was his inexperience with women showing but without those two options he knew fuck all what to do with her. 

Luckily, Sansa was hyper fixated on fussing with her appearance, twirling her bangs around her fingers into long tendrils and smudging makeup onto her face. Apart from the glares he received when he braked too hard, she was mostly silent. 

It was hard for him not to steal glances at her while she was focused on the small mirror attached to the sun visor. Fuck, her chest looked good even in that stupid lumpy sweater she was wearing. He thought it was a testament to her beauty that tits like that were one of the last things that you noticed about her.

For him, it had been the hair. Maybe he’d been biased because of how much the color reminded him of fire. He remembered the night of the wedding rehearsal, her hair had been lit in a halo of orange lights. There’d been a cold wind that night and her hair had whipped around, flickering in the night sky so much like flames that he almost thought the strands might lick up his body and burn him even more. And when she held his hand he had felt warm to his bones. 

Next, would have to be those eyes. How they looked watching Arya walk down the aisle, river blue puddles glistening with tears against a backdrop of a more faded hue. And her voice, tuneful and polite even when it had been mired with exhaustion and sulkiness as she pressed herself against him and acted like he’d be staying at Winterfell forever. 

Sandor absolutely did not know how he was going to get through the next few days. He could feel his mouth start to twitch involuntarily, so he blasted the a/c in his face even though the dry air would irritate the hell out of his scars. 

Sansa was finally done with her preening when they were well on their way to the Isle. He heard the sun visor flip up in reunion with the roof of the truck and felt her eyes on him. “How did you decide on the Quiet Isle to live?”

“You know how I told you an injury sidelined me?”

“Yes.”

Sandor could almost wince at the memory of the pain. “Fucked my leg up bad. All kinds of torn muscle, nerve damage, my bone was sticking out of my knee. There are actually videos of it if you want to see-”

“Absolutely not! Who would want to see that?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, “A lot of people. That’s the whole draw of fights, watching two mean-looking guys beating each other to a pulp.”

“Well,  _ I  _ don’t care to watch anything like that. And I don’t think you’re mean-looking.”

Sandor quirked his good eyebrow at that, “You sure about that, little bird?”

Sansa reddened and turned to look out the window. “Don’t tease me, I actually thought you were quite handsome when I first saw you. It was only ruined because you started talking.”

He barked out a loud laugh. “Aye, you’ve got me there.”

Sansa’s lips turned in a small smile and she turned back at him. “The Quiet Isle?”

“The medical center at the Isle one of the best in Westeros. My surgeon was well known for taking on fucked cases, bloody ex-septon that he is. Wouldn’t even let me get pissed while I was in the hospital. I was hoping to recover enough to fight again so I threw myself into the rehab. I got well enough, got rid of the fucking limp, but wasn’t fit to fight again. Didn’t have anywhere else to go and it seemed like a good place as any,” Sandor finished, thinking of all he’d left out. 

Something passed through Sansa’s eyes resembling sadness, but she quickly returned to smiling at him. “Your surgeon was an ex-septon?”

He nodded, “Still acts like one.”

“Why did he leave the Faith?”  
“Met a girl, fell in love with her, left and married her. She died a bit after but he’d liked practicing medicine too much to return to the septry.”

Sansa clasped her hands together, “Oh, that’s so romantic.”

Sandor snorted. “If you call a man losing his wife and spending the rest of his life wifeless, childless, and brotherhood-less romantic.”

She clucked her tongue softly at him. “It’s not that. It’s the fact that they loved each other that much in the first place. I hope I have something like that one day.”

_ You already do. _ Sandor doesn’t know in what kind of bastard universe he’d end up as a Brother, but he’d abandon it for her without question. He really didn’t want to be thinking these thoughts and he was damn sure not about to voice them, so he was glad when the Isle started coming into view. 

“Look little bird, this is why I didn’t want some dolt driving you.”

Her mouth opened at the sight of the green island, before closing in confusion. “Sandor, how are we getting across?”

He looked at the mudflats stretching out before them. “Tide’s out, so drive across that trail right there. I don’t pray but some do.”

“You’re joking, what trail? Sandor!”

They hit a rough spot and the truck rocked to the side, spraying Sansa’s window with mud. She screeched and grabbed at his arm, not letting go until the truck rolled onto the solid ground of the island. “How is something like that even possible in this day and age?”

Sandor shrugged. “They refuse to build a damn bridge, like at any moment we’re going to be invaded.”

“What happens when the tide is up?”

Sandor gestured over to the sept as they passed it. “A brother is usually on standby to row people across. There are places to leave cars or bikes at either end.”

Sansa shook her head. “That’s utterly prehistoric. Is that the real reason you decided to live here? Did the difficult man need a difficult place to live?”

“I thought you’d like that part, aren’t you a fan of history? Or is it just the dresses you like?”

Her eyes immediately widened in excitement. “I hadn’t thought of that! I haven’t gotten a script yet but imagine if it has a scene of Florian rowing Jonquil along the Bay of Crabs. That would be so romantic! Do you think we’ll be able to cross by boat when we go to Maidenpool?”

“There’s a full moon tomorrow night, the tide should be up all day.”

“Yay!” She nearly squealed as she rolled down the mud-caked window and stuck her head out to observe the Isle as they made their way to Sandor’s home. 

They’d passed the sept and the little hamlet that had been built up around it. The paved roads gave way to unmarked trails through green fields. While the Vale had been inundated with snow, the Isle remained green due to the warmer coastal winters they had. Sansa sighed contently, “It’s so peaceful here. It reminds me of when I tagged along with Jon while he went to Hardhome for work for a few weeks. Truly its own little world. I haven’t been but I would imagine it’s a lot like Tarth from the way Brienne describes it.”

Sandor couldn’t help but growl at the mention of the woman. “Ah. I forgot you and she don’t get along. Why is that? I remember Arya saying something about her running you over? That doesn’t sound like Brienne.”

“No, the big bitch and I don’t get along. Her accusing me of being a pervert didn’t fucking start things off on the right foot.” 

Sansa opened her mouth before starting to fiddle with the sleeves of her sweater. “Oh. Did you maybe… flirt with her? She’s very tall and I can imagine it would be nice to speak to a woman who you don’t have to look down on, but Brienne’s not good with affairs of the heart.”

“Fuck no. You know what she does for a living?”

Sansa seemed to sigh a breath of relief and nodded. “That’s how we met her. We were her first clients at her PI agency after she left the force because of that awful sex bet amongst the other officers. Mother wanted to find the closest thing to a police officer to track Arya down when she ran away.”

“Well, she found your sister alright. Multiple times. During which she accused me of being  _ involved  _ with the wolf bitch.”

Sandor nearly shuddered in disgust. “That’s an easy way to get on my bad side. My brother… He hurt girls that way. I would never… When I met your sister she’d just had a fight with Gendry and was solo. What was I supposed to do? Let her wander the country alone?”

Somehow Sansa’s hand found his. “She was very lucky to have you looking out for her.”

“She fucking was, let me tell you. Not a few days after we got together she goes and starts a massive bar fight. She takes care of one guy and leaves me the rest. Plucky as the girl is she’d never been able to go it alone.”

She had started squeezing his hand tightly when he spoke of the fighting. “How does you getting run over by Brienne come into it?”

“It was during one of Arya’s escapes after being located. The woman claimed she didn’t see me and it was an accident but I’ve never bought it.”

Sansa giggled, “Brienne never did end up catching Arya. She came home when she wanted to. I hope you weren’t too hurt.”

Sandor shook his head, “Just knocked on my ass.”

“Good. Did Arya ever tell you why she left home?”

Sandor shook his head again. Arya used to talk a lot about her family and how her parents, specifically her mother, would never let her do any of the things she was doing while on her own. But she’d never gone in-depth with why she left. 

“The debutante ball. Arya had skipped most of the cotillion classes but mother pulled some strings. Arya didn’t want to go and they had the worst fight. She ended up sneaking out the night of the ball so mother told her she couldn’t fence anymore as punishment. She got rid of all her equipment, including the foil Jon had specially made to look like Dark Sister, you know the Targaryen sword? Then Arya was gone and didn’t come back until the next year.”

Sandor started laughing, not being able to stop for a fat few minutes. When Sansa began to look alarmed he pulled himself together to the best of his ability. “That damn sword was the reason for the fight at that bar. The guy wouldn’t let her buy it off of him.”

“I always wondered how she got that back.” 

It seemed fitting. But Sandor had been subject to enough Catelyn vs Arya dramas during the wedding so he thought to quickly change to subject. “I’m guessing you were one of those fluffed up swans at one point?”

Instead of blushing like he thought she would, Sansa just smiled. “Yes, I was. Joffrey was my escort but even he didn’t ruin the night. I danced with nearly every boy in attendance and wore this beautiful white gown and gloves. Not too be arrogant but I do look nice in white.”

“I bet you do, little bird.”

Sandor looked down at where their hands interlocked, a connection that had become quite sweaty during the drive. Sansa followed his gaze before quickly snatching her hand away. “Sorry. Oh, we’re stopped.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that she  _ just  _ realized they’d been sitting in front of his house for easily half an hour. They both hopped out of the car and eagerly stretched, Sandor giving special attention to his bad knee. Sansa raised her hands in the air and yawned. 

Sandor grabbed all of her luggage, ignoring her protests about carrying everything. He saw her look around the front of the house, admiring the tidy garden in front and the few yellow flowers braving the frosty air. “I didn’t take you for a man who likes to garden.”

“You’re right, that’s the work of-”

Before Sandor could get out another word the front door swung open and a round-faced young man approached them. “You’re back!”

“Podrick,” Sandor finished and motioned towards the boy.

He watched as Podrick extended his hand to Sansa, instantly sparked with jealously at how much more Podrick’s young unblemished hand matched Sansa’s than his own. Sansa cocked her head, “You look familiar, Podrick.”

The young man nodded his head, “Just Pod, if you please. I was Tyrion’s assistant, then he gave me to Brienne, and then she gave me to Sandor.”

Sansa shot him a look and he crossed his arms. “Seems like a guilty conscious does it not?”

She laughed and shook her head as they filed inside. “We were just discussing that lovely flower bed outside. Sandor said it was your doing?”

“Yes, black-eyed Susans… “

Their voices faded into the background as Sandor made his way into the kitchen to retrieve whatever undoubtedly delicious food Pod had made for dinner. The poor boy, Sandor had heard tales that he was originally some sort of business student. But Tyrion had used him as a personal bartender, chef, and errand boy before pawning him off to Tarth who turned him into a bloody secretary. And now he was stuck with Sandor as a ranch hand. 

Sandor eyed their supposed dinner questioningly. And it wasn’t until Sansa came up from behind him that he got any answers. “Pigeon Pie!”

Sandor looked back at a sheepish Pod. “I hope it’s something you like, I looked up traditional Northern recipes online.”

Sansa did enjoy it, but Sandor thought she enjoyed him eating it even more. She watched vigilantly as he took his first bite and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

Sandor gave a curt nod, “It’s good.”

Sansa smiled and did a little dance in her chair before digging into her own pie. “Pod, this is so amazing. And I love the feather detail.”

That launched Pod into a monologue about his hero’s journey into the foray of cutting pie crust into little feather shapes. It was enough to last them through dinner and Sandor watched Sansa grow adorably sleepy as the day hit her fully. She was so tired she didn’t even make a fuss when he brought all her luggage to her room by himself. 

He flipped on the light, “It’s not Winterfell but there are a lot of rooms in the house so if you don’t like it you can have your pick.” 

Sandor had picked the room out specifically for her. A large window faced the southeast part of his land and though the sky was black now, come morning she’d have a perfect view of the horses grazing in the pasture. 

She blinked at him sleepily, “No it’s perfect. Thank you for everything.”

Before he could think she was standing up on her tippy toes and kissing his scarred cheek. “Goodnight, Sandor.”

The door shut behind him and he leaned against it for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. He really didn’t know how he was going to make it. 

  
  
  



	7. I'll Make it to the Moon if I Have to Crawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have been dragging along and horrible at updating, but I've not abandoned this story! It'll get done at some point, I promise.

Sansa woke up as soon as the first rays of light floated through the window. She had slept soundly and was grateful for how silent the Isle was at night, though she supposed it _ was _ the _ Quiet _ Isle. The loud and bright streets of King’s Landing were far gone from her, replaced by the quietness of the Northern countryside. The Isle was similar to home. 

What was different from home were the nickering horses grazing outside her window. They had horses at Winterfell, but Sansa had never taken to them. In her youth, she declared them too large and smelly. But seeing them in the warm light of the wakening dawn, serenely munching on dewy grass, she thought them to be rather majestic. 

Breaking away from the horses, Sansa focused her gaze into the small mirror she had placed on the dresser across from the bed. She grabbed her brush and began to detangle her hair, working slowly from the ends to the root, mindlessly counting to one hundred out of a habit her mother drilled into her. She thought back to the airport; when she had seen Sandor standing there, towering above everyone else she’d nearly had a stroke. Sansa had imagined a thousand different ways their reunion would go but him greeting her with no makeup, hair a mess, and smelling like plane was not one of them. She could have killed him if it hadn’t been so sweet. He’d been so thoughtful, even with the room she was staying in. The furnishings looked brand new and the thought of Sandor going out of his way for her warmed her heart. 

But she would not let that happen again. And no less than two hours later she emerged in the perfect outfit, with the perfect hair, and perfect makeup. Upon entering the kitchen, Sansa tried to hide her disappointment when she found all Pod and no Sandor. Pod grinned widely at her, his chubby cheeks rising high and suffocating his eyes. “Good morning!”

He gestured for Sansa to sit down as he fussed with something on the stove. A warm plate of delicious-looking food was placed in front of her and Sansa expressed her thanks, casually slipping in a question as to where Sandor was. Pod sat down across from her, “Oh, he’s out in the stables.” Sansa nodded, attempting to look uninterested and forcing herself to calmly eat at least half of the food in front of her before excusing herself to find Sandor. 

He was in the stables as Pod had told her, tinkering with a water bucket in a stall with a large black horse. He straightened from his bent-over position when he heard her approaching him. “Stop,” he said gruffly before he slammed the door to the stall shut. 

Sansa obeyed, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps Sandor didn’t want her bugging him while he was working? She hesitantly stepped closer, peering up at him through the steel bars. Sandor gestured with his head towards the horse, “He’s a mean cunt, wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

As if on cue, the horse charged at her, rattling the metal and wood of the door and slamming his body into the side of the stall, then backing up with its head jerking high in the air. Sandor turned towards the horse, “Shut the fuck up, Stranger!”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, “Stranger? That’s a little blasphemous, don’t you think?”

Sandor snorted, “You know a better name for a horse that broke a brother’s shin and bit a chunk out of another’s ear?”

“Is that where you got him? From the sept?”

Sandor nodded, “Some fucker just left him there in the middle of the night. It didn’t take long for them to call me. He’s a handful alright, so he’ll stay with me till he kicks the bucket.”

Sansa smiled as she watched Sandor gently pat Stranger on the shoulder and the horse headbutt him affectionately in return. “He seems to like you well enough.”

“Yeah, well, birds of a feather and all that horseshit. You see the other ones?”

Sansa shifted her weight on the dusty floors of the stable. “Yes! I had an amazing view of them this morning.”

“Do you ride, Little Bird?”

Sansa shook her head, “Not really, Arya is the more equine inclined out of the two of us. My experience with horses is limited to making Jon ride my friends and me around on a cart while we pretended that we were princesses being carried through crowds of adoring smallfolk. Will you teach me?”

“Yes, but not today.”

Sansa could feel her lips turn down into a pout even though she knew she should be appreciative that Sandor was opening up his home to her in the first place. But horseback riding sounded so romantic. She heard Sandor huff out a laugh as he exited the stall. He took her chin in between his thumb and index finger, “Aren’t you planning on dragging me around Maidenpool all day? Best to conserve our energy, right?”

Sandor’s hands were away from her face far too soon and she struggled to recover from the unexpected contact. Her brain was muddled with the feel of his large rough fingers caressing her skin so she nodded in agreement and hurriedly pushed her hair behind her ears. She followed him out of the stables, hungrily staring at the wide expanse of his back. He looked up at the sky, “We should head out soon if we want to get to Maidenpool by noon.”

“We can go right now, I just need to get my bag!” Sansa cringed at how eager she sounded, practically sprinting towards the house when Sandor agreed. She hoped he just assumed that she was excited about touring around the city and not aware of the reality that she was over the moon that she was going to get him all to herself for nearly half a day. The last thing she wanted was Sandor to think she was some crazed stalker who concocted all of this to get to him, even if it was partially true. 

She met him in the truck and they made their way down through the town and to the shore. Sansa couldn’t keep the smile off of her face when they reached the water. The air was crisp with winter but the sun was high in a clear blue sky, making the surface of the water glitter and shine. Sandor guided her to a quaint wooden rowboat that was whitewashed on the exterior. She stepped in and took a seat, looking around curiously. “I thought you said that the brothers rowed people across?”

Sandor crouched down and set his hands on the other end of the boat, “I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, little bird.” Sansa let out a squeak when Sandor pushed the boat through the hardened silt of the shore until she was bobbing in the water, then jumped in himself. _ He’s so strong… And limber too. _As he began to propel them through the water Sansa started to take pictures of the rippling waves, and discreetly some of Sandor. She was a little bit annoyed that the cold weather had Sandor all covered up. She could just imagine him in the summer, taught muscles rippling with every stroke of the oars, tanned skin glistening with sweat, the sun burning down on him so hot that he might even have to take off his shirt… 

Sansa could feel her face starting to redden so she looked out at the bay. “How far is it to Maidenpool?”

Sandor stopped rowing for a moment, “If we had left the other end of the Isle we could have taken a drive down the coast. It’s pretty, but the lady wanted boats, so we’ll catch the ferry in Saltpans. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

He said it gruffly, but Sansa could barely contain herself. Is this what it felt like for someone to care about what she liked, about what she wanted? She felt her ears start to burn and knew there was no helping her complexion, so she focused on the scenery around them and the lapping of the water as the oars made their way through it. 

True to his word, the journey to Saltpans took less than a half an hour, though Sansa attributed their great time to Sandor’s arm strength. She smiled at Sandor and looked around the dock as he rowed them into a guest slip. “I didn’t realize how close we were to Saltpans.”

“Aye. On a clear night, you can see the lights of the city, dead-fucked port town that it is. You’ll see when we come back.” Sandor hoisted her onto the dock by her waist. He’d been very handsy with her today, and Sansa decided she liked it and that he should touch her more often. 

They hung around, waiting for the next boat out to Maidenpool. Sandor bought her an ice cream cone even though he grumbled about it being too early in the morning and that the thing was, _ “Too damn sweet,” _regardless. Luckily, it was only a short wait and soon they were Maidenpool-bound. The wind on deck prevented proper conversation but gave Sansa ample opportunities to cling to Sandor’s strong and steady frame for support. 

She still clung to him as they disembarked from the boat and stepped onto the dock. The archaic wood whined underneath their feet as they made their way into the city. Sansa squeezed Sandor where she was holding him as the towering pink walls came into view. He snorted, “I should have known you’d love a pink city.”

She slapped his arm playfully, “I happen to think that pink is one of the loveliest colours. What better colour for a city of love?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “What do you want to do first, little bird?”

Sansa could feel the grin spreading across her face, “Jonquil’s Pool! I’ve wanted to go ever since I was a little girl. And the scene where Florian sees Jonquil bathing in the pool is one of the most important parts of the film, I need proper inspiration.”

“Aye, all right. The bathhouse is that way,” he said, guiding her by the waist towards the center of town. His hand lingered on the small of her back, weaving her through the dense crowds.

“Do you come here often?”

Sandor looked down at her, “There’s a bar I like, none of that pomp shit that’s everywhere nowadays. I come for that or to run errands for the Elder Brother.”

Sansa couldn’t help but giggle, “I never took you for someone to be friends with an ex-septon.” He scowled, “We’re not friends… He’s just a nosy shit.”

Sansa hummed in understanding, though she didn’t quite believe him. Something told her that if questioned, Sandor wouldn’t call Arya or Pod his friends either, though they most definitely were. “Are we friends?”

She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. _ Are we friends? _ Who asks that? She might as well have popped the “ _ What are we?” _ question. Sandor had stopped but he hadn’t said anything. Sansa opened her mouth to tell him to forget it, but he motioned to the building in front of them before she could speak. 

_ Jonquil’s Pool _ read the engraved wooden sign above the entrance, complete with an array of carved yellow jonquils. Sandor nodded towards the entrance, “Go on girl, off to your inspiration.”

“Oh. Did you want to come? Not that you have to if you don’t want to.”

Sandor’s good eyebrow raised questioningly, “Isn’t the pool for women? Little bird, I don’t think you could easily sneak me in.”

Sansa laughed, “It’s not the olden days Sandor. The faith stopped tending to it decades ago, it’s coed now.”

“So there will be other men in the pool with you?”

Sansa shrugged, “Perhaps, I don’t know how busy it will be.” 

Sandor snatched hold of Sansa’s arm with his hand and began stalking down the street without a word, tugging Sansa along with him. 

A little while later, they stood in front of the entrance one again, this time in possession of a pair of trunks that Sansa had convinced him to buy in white. After growling at her when she tried to pay for her own admission fee, they parted ways to change. 

Sansa felt a blast of chilly air hit her body when she disrobed, so she hastily put on her suit and wrestled her hair into a messy bun. She took a moment to thumb at the light blue fabric even though her skin had turned gooseflesh. It was her favorite. Joffrey and Ramsay had both thought it boring, “gifting” her skimpy bikinis that she never wore. She’d always been conservative, neither of them had managed to beat that out of her. 

She wondered what Sandor would think. In truth, she hadn’t worn a swimsuit in years. The few scars her body held from the past had faded to a silvery-white that blended into her pale skin but Sansa felt bare with them exposed. Sansa rubbed her arms and shivered. She was worrying over nothing. Sandor wouldn’t mind, he had his own scars after all. 

She scampered out to the pool and quickly stepped in, immersing her body in the warm water and thanking the gods for pool heaters and the fact that the city used them to attract tourists to the pool year-round.

As Sansa looked around for Sandor she was displeased to see that the warm water did in fact keep a healthy amount of visitors. The pool was crowded and Sansa found herself frowning as she was hoping for a few ounces of seclusion in the pool.

The frown disappeared when she turned her head and caught sight of Sandor. He was hard to miss, large as he was. Her mouth fell open as she took in the image of him. It was almost like he was sculpted from marble, every muscle she’d imagined he had was taut and glistening with a watery sheen. Though they had purchased the largest pair of trunks available, they rode up his thighs and were tight at the waist. A smatter of fine black hair clung to his chest, his very wide firm chest. Sansa wondered how solid and steady such a chest would feel underneath her hands… Then he was staring at her. Staring at her staring at him. 

She closed her jaw and waded over to him as gracefully and with as much refinement as one could when caught ogling someone. Much to her satisfaction, Sandor seemed to return the favour by openly staring at the tasteful amount of cleavage her swimsuit offered. She smiled bashfully at him, “The water’s warm.”

He nodded, scanning the pool while glaring at the other occupants, “Bit crowded.” Sansa nodded with it, taking on a whine in her voice, “I know. I wish the winter weather would have kept people away. It’ll be vacated for filming but I have to design the costumes before that, of course.”

Sandor dipped his head back and rolled it back and forth in a stretch, “Do they need clothes for that? Isn’t the naked bit the whole point?”

Sansa contemplated the question, watching the droplets of water travel down the ends of his hair and trickle down his neck. “There have been so many renditions, nudity’s been done. I’m told they want some sort of bathing dress. Something sheer and woefully historically inaccurate, I’m certain.”

He gave her a solitary nod, obviously lost on what she was talking about but she appreciated him listening regardless. She looked around, trying to take in the scenery around her. She took in the stone arches that had been built around the pool standing high above them, littered with ivy, and the fresh smell of the sweetwater. Or she at least tried to. It was hard to put herself in the greatest love story of all time when every few seconds an anonymous wet mass of flesh brushed up against her and disrupted her thoughts. The crescendo came when a large and noisy group entered the pool, shoving Sansa into Sandor. 

She latched onto Sandor’s arm for support, unintentionally trapping his arm between her breasts. Sansa swore she could feel the blood burn beneath her skin. “Sorry.”

He waved her off, “Want to get out of here, little bird?”

“Yes, please.”

Sandor began to make his way towards the exit of the pool, pushing people on either side of him out of the way. Sansa followed closely behind the small path he rammed down. She leaned in as close as she could to his ear, “I remember reading that the pool was filled with dead bodies during the War of Five Kings. I think I might have preferred to bathe among the corpses than this.”

Sandor snorted, “If one more person had looked at my face like I was fucking contagious, you might have gotten your wish.” Sansa clucked her tongue, “Don’t mind the insipid Sandor, they aren’t worth your thoughts.”

“I don’t, doesn’t mean it doesn’t get bloody tiring.”

***

A few hours of shopping for useless trinkets, touring a small crumbling castle, dining at Sandor’s bar which seemed like a walking health violation, and a tiresome ferry ride back to Saltpans later, she and Sandor were blissfully back in the rowboat on their way home. The sky was black above them, lit by the full moon and the stars sprinkled around it. Sansa looked at him, the electric lantern sat between them casting dark shadows across his face. “I’m not surprised you can see well at night, after all, you could see in that dark hovel you called a bar.”

Sandor smirked, his upper lip twitching as he did so, “Character is what it is, girl.”

“I get to pick the next time. I’m thinking mixology, you strike me as a cotton candy martini type of man.”

He shook his head, “I don’t even want to know what the fuck that is.”

Sansa rested her chin on her hand, thinking about their day trip to Maidenpool. “Sandor, is the traffic always that bad?”

He nodded, “Tourist town.”

“And the crime? We saw two people mugged today.”

“Tourist town. You’re like to get much of both.”

Sansa pursed her lips. Maidenpool hadn’t exactly been the fairytale city that she had dreamed of. The buildings were worn, the streets were crowded, and most of the shops sold the same garish, overpriced souvenirs. “Does the village on the Isle have apartments?”

Sandor stopped rowing at her question. “Aye, but they’re probably too small for your work.”

“Oh. But there are houses for sale, right?”

He looked at her intently before answering, “You ever lived alone, little bird?”

Sansa looked away from him in embarrassment, “No.”

“A large ranch house a mile away from your nearest neighbor might not be the best for you.” Sansa twisted her hands together and sighed, “You’re right.”

Sandor tugged at his hair, pulling the strands in front of his face. “There’s plenty of room at my place… If you have your heart set on the Isle, that is.”

If Sansa wasn’t perched in a small boat floating in the water she might have started to jump up and down. “Sandor, do you really mean that? I wouldn’t be a bother?”

Sandor shook his head, “No bother.”

There was no keeping the smile off her face. “I’ll be the perfect tenant, I promise!” 

“You think the rest of the lot will be okay with that?”

Sansa thought about how her parents would react to the news that she was moving in with Arya’s tall scarred friend from the wedding. If it was Arya, they would accept it, but this was her, their daughter who couldn’t make a good decision if her life depended on it. No, she wasn’t that way anymore. Even if her parents couldn’t see it Sansa had learned. This was a good decision, though she was sure her parents would never see it that way. “I’m an adult, they don’t need to know my every movement.”

Sandor shrugged, his lips turned up in a lopsided grin. “Jon will have to know. If I don’t tell him, he’ll just track me down.”

“He’s a good kid.”

Sansa nodded softly. The silence stretched between them but Sandor didn’t move to pick up the oars again. “I had a sister.”

Sansa tilted her head, trying to hide her surprise at the statement. He grimaced and spat, “Gregor.” Sansa bit at her bottom lip as Sandor looked into the blackness where the sky met the water. “I was young, don’t even remember her name or where she’s buried. No one bothered to tell me.”

She looked up at the moon in a bid to keep the tears from falling down her face before grabbing his knee tightly. “Sandor, I think you would have made a great big brother.” 


End file.
